


Take me Home; (through fields of Deceivers)

by ASOUEfan



Series: A Saga of Solace and Sacrifice [3]
Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: A lot more choking, Abuse of Authority, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Back Pain, Dom!Venable, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Kneeling, Langdon coerces her lets be honest, Light BDSM, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Graphic Violence, Orgasm Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Shooting Guns, Situational Humiliation, So much angst, Sort Of, Stripping, Vaginal Fingering, With A Twist, a little bit of choking, pain control, sub!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASOUEfan/pseuds/ASOUEfan
Summary: Sequel to Say it Again. (This is the same reader as Say it Again. So dubbed Doctor!Reader.)6 Months after the events of Say it Again, the Reader has managed to ease Wilhemina Venable from her pain medication, but in doing so takes the mantle of not only managing Miss Venables physical pain, but her psychological grief. For in discovering Miss Venables loss she can make sense of her behaviour and hopefully, help her through it.But the arrival of Michael Langdon at Outpost 3 does nothing except worsen the situation; taking away Miss Venable's position as head of the Outpost, humiliating her during her Co-operating, and dropping a terrible lie that will lead Wilhemina down a dark path of revenge.If he is lying, at all...
Relationships: Wilhemina Venable/Original Female Character(s), Wilhemina Venable/You, wilhemina venable/reader
Series: A Saga of Solace and Sacrifice [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614769
Comments: 80
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has kept reading this timey-wimey series thats turned into a whole saga, and being posted out of sequence and everything, I didn't expect it to become such a wonderfully all consuming universe. 
> 
> So, we are 6 months after Say it Again. Around the 18 month mark, where the show picks up. 
> 
> Enjoy the drama.

It was the middle of the day, or the evening, you weren’t quite sure anymore. Time seemed to lose to its meaning when days and nights all looked the same, one bleeding into the other and back again. There was simply, busier times, and quieter times.

You’d eaten a meal at some point of the day and it had been the same cube as it always was, the same routine as last time. The desperate scraping of stainless steel cutlery on empty plates, each with their own perfected patterns of how their cube was to be savoured.

Your fellow inhabitants were losing the will to make an effort, you notice, as Mr Gallant wanders past with his shirt untucked, his neckerchief askew. The platinum blonde rustles the fire with a poker then swings it around idly as though in an imaginary game of baseball, lost to his own thoughts.

You were further down the road of time than before; that was almost all you were sure of. There was a pile of books in the corner of your bedroom that marked its passage as well as anything else. There were no calendars that you had found, perhaps Miss Venable had one. She had seemed to know when a year had passed, that some sort of, _move_ would be happening at 18 months. You didn't know when 18 months was going to be, or if it had happened already.

But your pyramid was growing, and that gave you a degree of contentment. Before the bombs you had had little time for self-indulgent activities like reading, not novels at least. There were medical journals scattered in the staff room and on snatched moments alone you would flick through them, scanning the abstracts for anything interesting. Then your pager would vibrate and any inclination of pausing to devour the latest statistics would be tossed aside for more urgent concerns.

Coco St Pierre lazed on the sofa opposite you, her hair in an overly back brushed puff-ball shape, the only sign she was actually conscious was the sigh in her expression as Mr Gallant touches his hand over her expansive locks somewhat obsessively. They spent their time experimenting, gossiping and complaining. But you had little time for their childishness.

Your _duties_ with Miss Venable were fairly consuming, and there was little else to interrupt your day in the Outpost, so you had come to appreciate the stillness of being able to just _sit,_ and let your body recover afterward. At least you already had the reputation for staying quiet, forgotten somewhere nose in a book - now you were glad of their ignorance. For you could rest your aching muscles without disturbance - once you had found a position that didn't irritate your sensitive nerves.

More than you ever your responsibilities had increased. For in agreeing to help Miss Venable wean off her medication, you had also found yourself increasingly in need of it yourself. She was the most unforgiving boss you had ever had - not that it felt the appropriate word. For what was she, what were you to her, anymore? Your help had long since deviated from anything medical. Her dependancy wasn’t so much a physical need but a psychological one.

Not that you would complain. The intimacy that came with your position was worth every sting and bleeding scab on your thighs. You gazed distractedly at the ever-flickering candles on the long rectangular coffee table. The black metal holder cradled its candle votives, and not for the first time you find it curious that the Co-operative would cultivate a supply of candles that could last well past all of your deaths, but not appoint at the very least a medical officer with some basic training.

You turn the page and flick your eyes to the top of the next side, continuing your recovery in silence. Your fatigue was unknown to the more self-obsessed Guests that you found yourself surrounded with, but you find yourself glad of their lacking perception. Only Emily had once asked if you were alright, noticing how you winced when you rested your back to the dining chair without thinking. Miss Venable’s eyes had been quick to snap to you, her expression menacing, warning you without words. You’d brushed Emily’s kind questions aside, explaining you’d simply slept awkwardly, and she’d been happy enough to accept your words at face value.

Coco hefted up the layers of her dress to yank her assistant to the side of the room, just as she returned with refilled flutes of mineral water. Mallory’s eyes widen as she has to swerve the tray she was carrying out to the side to balance the glasses before they fell, thanks to Coco’s already insistent yapping. “What do you mean there's no more cubes?”

Mallory slid her tray safely onto the top of the piano waving the girl quiet. “Sshh, I didn't say that,” She corrects her through hushed tones. Her eyes dart across the room to you suspiciously. You were always strangely quiet, just _there,_ hanging around forgotten in the background somewhere. But she's satisfied you’re far enough from ear-shot to listen in, and this whole time of living in Outpost 3 you had shown little inclination to make friends _or enemies_ of them. Checking the door way that none of the others were loitering and listening in either, Mallory replies. “I said there is _hardly_ any. There used to be fridges full but now - “

“Oh my God Mallory are you saying I’m going to _starve_?” Coco shrieked, ruining any attempt her assistant had made to stay quiet. The girl rolled her eyes dispiritedly, folding her arms across her apron.

Her deadpan expression was one of resigned acceptance. “Yeah, but, slowly.”

Gallant played golf with his fire-poker, mimicking the sporting poses that he likely learnt from the cover of mens magazines rather than through any sporting prowess. “I bet _she’ll_ be fine,” He mutters, sending you a dubious look through this circular purple glasses. 

Coco lifts her hands to her hips. “Who?” She demands brattishly, not seeing anyone else in the room. You keep quiet, pretending you cant hear anything, aren’t involved in their conversation and have no desire to be. You turn the page.

“To be honest I mostly forget she's there,” Mallory says distractedly.

Gallant huddles up with them, casting you sideways glares that he thought were hidden behind his sunglasses, but seeing as he never looked from the other side, he didn't realise you could see it all. You feel the mood in the room start to shift, Coco’s irate hunger causing an elevated panic all of her own subconscious creation. “Haven’t you noticed her post-lunch dates with Miss Venable? Probably stuffing their faces with Twinkies,” Gallant folds his arms puffing his chest out like a peacock.

The hairs on your arms prickle, his words causing you stomach to clench. Post-lunch dates? They’ve been watching you? Last month they had still been part of the medication regime you had set out for Miss Venable. Half a tablet in the morning, give her a shot of the quick-acting opiate around 2pm, just as the therapeutic effects of the tablet started to wane, and then, moderate the come-down after dinner - though not every night of course. When she took you into her bedroom for a more, _creative_ solution it seemed to last her comfortably through the night.

3 months had been enough time to step down both pharmaceutical therapies; you’d stretched her supply as best you could and reduced the injectable dosage until all but one vial was gone. So now it was simply you, holding the woman’s physical and - as you were beginning to unpick her, _mental_ pain at bay.

You were determined to keep that last medication vial in case an actual emergency happened, if Gallant skewered himself with that poker and you were forced to act, treat an injury like an actual doctor and not a bewildering mix of therapist and submissive. The word tingled in the back of your mind.

Coco’s arms flapped, her jaw jutting out to the side in incredulity. “What? She has Twinkies?!” She snatched Gallants arm and dragged him over to you, the sudden presence of two bodies in your immediate personal space confronting. Your shoulders tense, pressing yourself back into the sofa cushion to try and make some space between you.

“Hey, hello bookworm I’m talking to you,” Gallant waves his hand in your face, rudely shoving the book down to your lap.

You didn’t like the attitude to his words, and it puts you on edge. “You hadn’t actually addressed me, during this conversation yet,” You reply slowly, turning your head subtly enough to send your glance out the stone archway hopeful at the very least of an interruption, or to make your escape from their scrutiny. 

Coco scoffed at you. “So? We’re obviously talking to you now. Mallory take this.” She swiped your book right out of your hands and you puff at her immaturity, acting like a play ground bully to someone weaker. Not that you were weak, it was simply her uninformed perception of such things - she couldn't see past the end of her nose to really make any meaningful insight into you as a person. “Come on spill - does Venable have a secret food stash?” She demands to know, her eyes like a wild animal, caged in a well-meaning but woefully unequipped zoo enclosure, starved not just of nutrition but stimulation.

“Yeah tell us,” Mallory tucked your book behind her back and rounded in on you too, her confidence only bolstered by Coco’s lack of inhibition.

You remain as passive as possible, as if regarding this whole thing as tiresome rather than dangerous, ignoring the thought that if they connect you and Venable, you could be in serious danger if your lies to them don’t stack up. “I doubt that.” You reply, keeping your voice as plain as possible. _Tell anyone about this and I will kill you._ Her words are burnt into your mind.

“Then where do you _go_ every day?” Gallant waved his arms gesticulating wildly. He was close to cracking and storming the front door of the Outpost, you knew it as well as everyone else. The patience and good manners demanded by Miss Venable could only be expected to go on for so long, people just didn't have it in them, the way she did.

They hadn’t suffered in their lives, there was no steel in their souls to hold them through the hunger and boredom, and the inevitability in accepting that they just _didn't matter_ anymore. Beyond _surviving_ , what were they even alive for, anyway?

Coco folded her arms across her chest. “I mean seriously if there was anywhere to go, I would know about it,” She conferred to her friend, implying that there would hardly be a party without the socialite of the Century present.

“Nowhere,” You insist, though any strength behind your words pales when they scoff at your answer. You untuck your legs and stand up off the sofa, gesturing to Mallory with your arm. “Can I have my book, please?”

Coco stepped directly between you and her assistant blocking you off. “No I’m still talking.”

You crick your neck side to side as you feel the tension mounting, your nerves starting to fidget with answers you’ve not yet thought of. “But I’m not,” You parrot back at her, putting your hands on your hips. Your limited amount of people skills had taken a serious hit during your 18 month confinement. “Can I have the book - “

“C’mon just tell us what the deal is,” Gallant heckles you, shoving your shoulder with his fingers, their pressure on you mounting.

“What are you hiding? Wheres the food!” Coco was acting crazed, this idea having taken root in her mind, and no matter what you said she wasn’t going to listen.

You puff at her, Gallants intimidation unbalancing you a little and you force a false confidence to push them back, refusing to stumble. “I don’t know what you - “

“Wheres the food!” Coco shrieks, her squawking suddenly quashed by a thundering and well-known echo. She visibly flinches, all you snapping your heads to the doorway and the dark cut-outsilhouette of Miss Venable, utterly still and composed.

Gallant shirks away from you, rubbing his hand over his hair and clearing his throat like an awaked school boy caught in some vandalising act. Coco folds her arms and pouts stubbornly, willing herself not to be affected by the woman’s presence, but failing to either hold her gaze or her expression. She blinks nervously, her set to the side hating herself for glancing nervously away. That sting to her cheek had never been forgotten.

Miss Venable stalks slowly in to the now silent room, the atmosphere tense and heavy, only the occasionally crackling of the fire telling you that you were still breathing, and not suspended in time. “What’s, this raucous?” She sends her gaze between you all, demanding answers. Miss Venable comes to a stop beside Coco, settling her cane in front of her with a quieter clack, tilting her head to examine the minutiae of Coco’s bewildered and shaken expression, the girl unable to turn her head to look at her. “Well?”

Coco couldn’t take it any longer. She turned and practically stamped her foot as she let her words fly erratically from her mouth. “Okay we know you’re hiding food in your room or whatever, you don't even seem hungry and the rest of us are _so starving_ it actually pains my stomach -“

Miss Venable could barely contain her venom, and she clacks her cane so loud your whole body jumps, the bruises on your back physically aching at just the sound. “You don't know, what pain is,” She slowly snarls, her eyes flicking to you for just a moment, and it dawns on you in that moment that there is more to her punishments than you have realised.

Perhaps she wants to make _you_ strong, too.

Gallant and Mallory look skeptically at one another, the weight of Venables words lost on them. “I snipped my finger once instead of Coco’s hair that hurt,” He says, his words swaggering as camply as he does. Miss Venable shoots him a silent glare, and he retreats. “Yeah okay, no. Sorry.”

The Administrator changes the direction of her eyes, walking past Coco finally letting up the pressure on her, and you swear you hear the blonde heave a thankful breath. Miss Venable rounds on Mallory, and Coco does nothing to try and intervene. “You have something, that does not belong to you.” Her hands play the silver birds head in her grip, turning to glance briefly at you over her shoulder, and you feel your cheeks heat. She was standing up for you. “Return it.”

Mallory nods, quickly skirting around them both and gives your book back with a mumbling, “Sorry, Miss Venable.”

You want to release the grin that is waiting behind your eyes, the little swell of power that comes to you having the ruthless leader on your side. “Thank you, Miss Venable,” You suck your lips in, trying to stop them smiling. She turns slowly on her heel walking stiffly out of the room, her eyes moving to you briefly in acknowledgment as she passes.


	2. Chapter 2

After the incident in the library you don't much fancy sitting there amongst Coco and Mr Gallants judgemental glares, so you take off alone and head to your room, reading there instead for a while longer. But you start to regret staying in one position, for joints seized up and your muscles began to cramp, as much as the rest was needed it also became counter productive if you did it for _too long._

You swing your legs off the high mattress and pad across to the bathroom, your pale grey stockings dirtying themselves underfoot. You lean inside the glass shower cubicle and switch the water on, holding your arm inside for a few minutes as you test the water, then climb out of your bizarre old-fashioned clothing, leaving it all uncared for on the floor. You longed for a pair of loose cotton scrubs and your worn-in college hoody; as much as the daily wearing of a corset and victorian style cotton undergarments was becoming oddly erotic for you, they weren't all that pleasant to wear.

But then nothing about Outpost 3 seemed to have been designed with the needs of the Guests in mind. Miss Venable valued strictness over comfort, rules over freedom, order over anarchy. Not that everything had to be so polarised, but you were learning from your interactions with her, there was no middle ground. Give everything, or get out.

Satisfied the shower was warmed through, you climb inside and pull the glass door to. The heat seeps immediately into your body and its glorious, though the patter of the water on the fronts of your thighs makes you hiss momentarily. Miss Venable was careful not to over-use your body, too much in one place and it would hurt beyond what was pleasurable, and you’d made your boundaries clear to her. You were having the most incredible experiences of your life - and likely would never have them with anyone else, if this was all that was left of the human race. But it didn't mean you were gong to exist purely for her, you were a woman and a professional and had your own mind, you were not going to become her plaything.

The sounds she made when she came to the play of your fingers were the sweetest things, and when she let you give her that pleasure, take her feet from her heels and let you rub her feet, massaging up her calf, she would soften, _sometimes._ It was this side of her you wanted to see more of, this woman beneath the harshness that intrigued you. It didn't mean however, that you weren’t scared of her too.

For she was more fragile than she seemed, and once or twice you had done something- touched something or said something that cut too close to a trauma she didn’t speak about, and her mood would flip on a dime.

You rub the slippery bar of soap over your body, under your arms and down between your breasts, lathering the simple linen-scented freshness across your skin, checking on the healing process of bruises here and there, mostly just pale yellow shadow now. The main and most recent caning she had given you was across the tops of your thighs and hips, they’d split the skin and you were tending the scabs with daily obsession. You didn't want them to scar, but they kept opening because of their location, and it was taking longer than you would’ve liked for them to heal over.

Turning to rinse your body under the water, you hum softly, a long forgotten song that for some reason came to mind. You close your eyes as you put your face under the spray, letting the water run through your hair and down your body for one last all-over hose down, and you reach for the knob to turn the water off. Shaking your head a little the water droplets flick from your eyes, you press your fingers over them wiping your face clean with your palm, still humming as you lean on the glass door fumbling for a towel, beads of water running down your forehead and into your eyes again.

A rouge-lipped woman stares at you, the light of the bathroom giving a little pinkness around her eyes and to her cheeks, the heat warming her skin and mellowing her drastically dark impression a little. “Shit! Sorry -” You yelp, the shock of someone staring back at you as you exit the shower totally wet and naked is one you weren't expecting. “How long have you been - standing there?” You clear your throat awkwardly, flapping for a towel, but Miss Venable slides it from the rail and holds onto it a moment, controlling your ability to cover yourself.

“Long enough,” She murmurs, a playful flicker to her eyes.

She places her cane forwards, treading carefully on the steamed tiles of the bathroom to inch forwards, distractedly examining her handiwork and how the dark bloodied scabs were doing.

You feel your core tighten at the gentle brush of her fingers over the marks. “How do they look?” You ask quietly, a strange desire to have her approve of them still, for her to enjoy your discomfort.

Her eyes dance to yours, then steps back and hands you the towel. “You’re the doctor.”

Your heartbeat quivers, a shameful anticipatory flutter to your words when you say them.“I meant, to you. Not clinically speaking,” You say, feeling a bit stupid for asking. But you just want, _more_ of her than you’re getting. You wrap the towel around your body and tuck the end in so your arms are free, though you find yourself clutching the edge of the towel anyway, more out of the need to hold something close, like a safety blanket.

“They suit you,” She says appreciatively. “Not I condone your, fishing for compliments.” Her expression tightens as she pulls herself somehow taller, her swan-like neck imbued with elegance from the high-collared lace she's chosen today. What did you want, exactly? _Kind words, a tender touch?_ She barely gave you any physical reassurances even during your sessions, let alone what would be considered a normal exchange of affections between two women. But the things you were doing together, the way you knelt and obediently bent your body to her will, there must be an attraction there for her too? Wasn’t it usual for there to be some form of attraction, when you fucked a person?

Her words depressed any desire you had to offer her a compliment in return. Now was not the time to attempt a flirtatious comment, clearly. “Did - did you need me? Is your pain, are you managing on the regime as it is?” You ask, trying to casually deduce what she is doing in your bathroom.

Not entirely without her wits, Miss Venable huffs a little at you. “You’re to come to my rooms directly after dinner. Make what excuses you have to, so they don't miss you.”

“I don’t think they would miss me either way.” You mutter, trying not to sound too disgruntled, for your isolation had to led rather fruitful rewards with the one interesting person this Outpost had to offer.

She readjusts the grip on her cane in delicate frustration. “I know Doctors are not known for their creativity or ability to lie, but try and think up something legitimate,” She drawls unappreciatively. “They’ve noticed your after lunch, visits.” You paint the floor tiles in avoidant patterns with your wet toes, staring at the floor as she deliver the blowing fact she heard more of Coco and Gallants accusations earlier that day than you had hoped. “You’re getting too comfortable. It breeds laziness. I told you take different routes - “

“Theres only so many ways I can walk up and down the hallways - “ You try to argue back, but her cane immediately clacks the floor in a reproachful manner. You stutter to a stop and fix your jaw, telling yourself not to talk. She steps closer to you, painfully close and for one absurd moment you think she's going to kiss you, the way she leans her head and ghosts her mouth across your jaw, breathing hotly into your ear. Your eyes fall shut, your heartbeat quickening almost instinctively, your arousal blossoming in the pit of your belly. _This woman._

“You do, _want_ to do this,” Her words breathe against your ear, and you swallow down a whine.

“Yes,” You gasp immediately. _Please,_ your mind begs her. You can’t form a coherent thought to really know what it is you’re aching for, and you just _know_ her manipulation of you is tailored to perfection, but you can’t help but be caught in it.

“Then think.” Miss Venable says firmly, her verdict final. Your body almost falls forwards with the need to keep her close, as she moves away a step, not waiting for further answer from you as she leans on her cane and turns heading for the door.

“Yes Miss Venable,” You murmur out of obedience more than anything, not knowing what more to say.

She hangs in the doorway and half-turns back to you as she speaks. “I’m leaving you something on your bed. I would like you to wear it, when you come tonight.”

You nod. “Yes Miss Venable.”

She’s about to leave, but turns again, her eyes flicking dangerously down your body. Even with the towel wrapped around you you know where she's looking, and it makes heat pool between your legs to a tentative wetness. “Oh and, make sure you’re clean shaven.” Miss Venable lifts her eyes back to yours for a moment, making sure you register what she’s wanting.

You blink, then blush. “You mean - “ Your hand gestures vague circular motions around the front of your hips.

“Everything.”

You run your tongue over your teeth. _She knew what she wanted._ The remarkableness of finding a woman so secure in herself to demand such a thing, and yet so insecure and broken at the same time, right now at the end of the world? It seemed to be too unreal for it to be true. “I’ll get back in the shower then,” You smirk, pointing loosely behind you.

“Take your time.” The edges of her mouth smile just enough to give you a flutter of warmth, and then pulls the bathroom door closed.

Miss Venable ensures the door handle flicks fully into its lock, before stepping quietly across your bedroom. She had wanted to do this for a while, and now as she had free rein to explore your space she guiltily indulges her interest, casting her eyes over your night stand, little on offer to her except whichever book you were busying yourself with, a glass of water and - Miss Venable pauses, taking the circular silver candle holder between her fingers, examining it. Was this one of _hers?_ She turns it around in her hands, casting her mind back, and glances over her shoulder at the closed bathroom door, and you beyond it. Why would you have this?

Of course, her fall. _The stairs_. The slip that started it all - and a memory that had lagged behind, forgotten and put away. Wilhemina was not one to let reminders of her weaknesses play themselves over in her mind, and thus had payed little attention to where this candle holder had gone.

But you’d kept this, this whole time.

Miss Venable wanted to ignore the slow swell in her heart, a feeling she had long sealed away, her ability to feel, _anything_ like that frozen on the day she had been parted from -

She quickly puts the candle holder back down, and fishes for the silver tear drop necklace from her pocket, draping the necklace around the circular indentation for the candle, hurrying away a step as if the emotional significance of it all was, too much.

Miss Venable picks the ensemble up again, and instead sits it on the bed. Her fingers fidget, turning the candle holder just so, a little this way then a little that, needing it, wanting it to feel _right_ before leaving it.

It wasn’t even her necklace, she had been wearing it, of course, that day. As she always did. But this one was similar, and would do for her specific requirement that evening.

There was no bringing her back. Perhaps this is what begrudging acceptance was starting to look like.

Wilhemina turned the candle holder one more time, laying the onyx charm so it caught the light in the prettiest of ways, then turned and left the room. She was unable and _unwilling_ to let her emotions get the better of her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is hideously long, 6k, but I couldn't cut it in the middle of all the angst, it would lose its emotional punch. So, take a deep breath.

Miss Venable lays her napkin across her lap with one hand, black wrist coverings coming elegantly from her forearm to the middle knuckle of her fingers. She twirls her cane between her fingers with her other hand, her agitation showing only through this, confident that no-one around the table would understand such movement except you.

You’ve cut your cube into four quarters, dividing them up with as much surgical precision as your muscle memory allows. Though you were never a surgeon, you did the rotation as a junior like everybody else, and not for the first time your greyish cube reminds you of the brains you dissected in anatomy class.

Wilhemina has put off the inevitable for too long, and slowing the cane in her fingers she raps it on the floor, commanding the room to silence. “I have an Announcement to make.” She says with a sombre, regretful voice. “There will be no more lunches.” Gasps are exchanged between the Guests, and your stomach rumbles almost directly in response. “Breakfast, will now have to sate your appetites until dinner.”

Your thoughts to the situation are more practical than the emotional outrage of the other guests. Like how was your body meant to heal anything with less than adequate nutrition? You would chug a nasogastric feed from the ICU store cupboard right now if you had the chance.

“What?” Andre says flabbergasted.

Timothy frowns. “You’re joking…” He glances to Emily in concern. Wasn’t the Outpost equipped with enough nutrition for 18 months? Had it been that long already? This didn’t make sense.

Miss Venable grit her teeth through their confusion. “Do I look like I am at all amused at this statement of fact?”

“Didn’t The Co-operative make a re-supply plan?” He continues, and the more she is forced to field their questions, the more you see the vein across her temple starting to pulsate. You shut your book and put it up on the table; foregoing the performance any longer. You weren't reading anyway, your focus was on Venable. _What was the point in hiding it?_

You knew that the mood shifting against her will would be taken out on you later, so it became of prime importance you paid attention. You wonder if now is the time to show your support for the woman you were starting to harbour feelings for, come out as being on her side.

“I cant go all day without eating?!” Coco wails, entitled. “My stomach is already digesting itself!”

Miss Venable grinds her words like meat through a cleaver, spoiled and poisoned. “If you would like to relieve the pressure on our food stores, you are more than welcome to _leave._ ” She gestures her arm to the side indicating the way to the exit, the black cape like portion of her dress wafting open. “Throw yourself to the hoard at our gates, if you like.”

You don't want to distract yourself, but you’re certain its the first time you’ve seen her in a short-sleeved dress, one that shows her arms, less thick starched layering on her body but almost, feminine. Or maybe you’re just starting to get a taste for her particular style of dressing. The wide belt cinched at her waist was almost an under-corset, but on the outside, thin black laces holding her bat-woman ensemble together in a tantalising almost, _fetished_ way. It wouldn't be too far-fetched considering her nightly interests.

Coco shoved her chair back suddenly, knocking the thing right over with the ruffles over her dress. “You want me to kill myself for this lot?” She flailed her arm accusingly at the other Guests.

Andre sighed, the first sign of his own demise staring him in the face. 18 months of whining about Stu had at least kept his mind off his own mortality. “We’d have a better chance of survival if granny pants over there would hurry up and _die_ \- “

“Speak for yourself dearie, my underwear is all silk,” Evie crowed over her mineral water, tossing it back into her mouth with careless abandon. Coco looked as though she were about to vomit at the thought, if there were anything left for her stomach to reject.

Venables face soured at the petty bickering that was breaking out, when it was meant to be a serious matter at hand. “Its either reduce your intake, or reduce the population. Its a simple as that.” She glances your way, wanting this purgatory to just be over, _all these people to be gone_. It would be so much easier if it there were only Greys, Guards, and you.

You weren’t _her_ though.

She could never be replaced, of course; that sort of love didn't come twice in a lifetime. But you kept her mind from dwelling on her grief too long, and for that she was grateful. Wilhemina twirled her cane lost in thought, ignoring the room and letting her eyes still on you, dwelling distantly.

Mr Gallant seems skeptical. “No, you’re just saying that so we turn on one another.” Why was he so determinedly difficult? You wish everyone could just give her a break and do as they were told, was that so hard? You had been a professional and yet you managed to heed her word, could they not provide the same level of respect?

Timothy shook his head. “That wouldn't make any sense. Miss Venable is charged with keeping us alive,” His innate goodness keeping her on a pedestal, despite his own long-thought out theories about the befuddling rules of The Co-operative.

Emily took her boyfriends hand under the table. “Thats right.” She tried to force confidence into her voice. “She knows what she's doing.” She didn’t believe it for a second, but they had no other choice than to trust and believe that Venable knew what she was doing.

You glance down the table. “I’m happy to, do health-checks on anyone who is worried, now were not eating as much -“ You attempt to do what you can to help, some guilty part of you _wanting_ them to see your outward support for her. You weren’t simply the girl with your nose in a book, silently observing the world go by; but that without you Miss Venable would've likely poisoned the lot of them by now. “Or, not.” No-one seemed to have heard you, their frustrated worried arguing spilling across the table back and for like black oil, which could with one spark be ignited, destroying not just themselves but what was left of their _hope,_ for survival of the Outpost.

You feel the scrape of her boot against your ankle, catching your attention with ease among the noise. “Time to make your excuses.”

————————

Wilhemina Venable stood in her bedroom, teasing the hem of her cape between her fingers, staring distantly across the room at nothing in particular. She worried the edge of it, as if checking for loose threads or kinks, almost a religiousness to how thoroughly she played with it. Wilhemina held her breath firm, controlling it in and out, concentrating on the idle habit.

She wanted this, she wanted _you_ \- and time was running out. The less cubes that were left to fill her plate, the shorter her duration of stay in the Outpost would be, and there was something that had been buried for too long that was rippling beneath the surface, ignored, crying to be released.

Wilhemina had _been_ someone once. She had _meant something_ , to someone. Being seen was the thing she had taken for granted, and by all accounts the thing she missed most. It wasn’t so much the physical side to the relationship, she was managing with you even though you lacked the natural obedience and urgency that she had, _before_ , but that wasn’t all that she had given Miss Venable.

Really knowing a person, completing them emotionally in a way no other could, _that_ was what Miss Venable yearned for.

You were here, and alive, so you had that over her. But it wasn’t the same, Miss Venable wanted it to _be the same._ Then she wouldn't have to deny that part of her memories; she could forget her, move on and just be with you and make it like it always was.

But the helicopter had risen in to the air, the sight of her getting smaller and smaller on the roof, that _feeling,_ that desperate ache had burnt lines in her heart, cauterised veins that should still pump and beat. Wilhemina wasn’t sure if they could be healed.

Miss Venable felt her back creak like rusty sprockets as she bent down, deciding to search for what she wanted. There was time still, and perhaps she could, remake her past if she just, did it again, copied her old behaviours with you somehow.

Leaning on her cane she carefully put one knee to the floor and knelt down, flipping up the end of the bedspread to reach under the bed for her bags. They were surrounded by clumps of dust and hair that had collected, her refusal to allow any Greys in evident. But Miss Venable would rather choke on a hairball that let an unwelcome pair of eyes find that there were too many bags and not enough people living in this suite of rooms. She knew her sketching things had been packed, that the lists had been checked thoroughly over and again at her insistence, and she was glad of that confidence.

She unzipped one of the bags rummaging for a minute until her fingers felt the soft tan leather, and she could slide the portfolio out from under her clothes. It was a way of keeping her drawings together, pencils of various softnesses and willow charcoal tumbled about inside in their packets. Wilhemina had bought double of each with the forethought that they would be getting more use.

She had been a delightful muse to draw. Admittedly, this had been the first time Wilhemina had even dwelled on _her_ long enough to allow herself to fetch them, but the ghosts of her were printed all over it. It had been a present from her at some stage, but when? Wilhemina couldn't remember.

You would suffice of course; you were an unexpected addition to the Outpost Guest List and yet the only one in her mind worth feeding at all. You weren’t quite as pretty, though that was a matter of subjective opinion, and attraction wasn’t just about what was externally exposed, but the person hidden inside.

There’s a knock at the door, causing Miss Venable to be pulled from her musings, tucking the portfolio under her arm and striding carefully toward the sound. Peering around the door to ensure its you and not Ms Mead with another _dire emergency,_ she opens it fully and lets you in.

You’re thankful she is quick to the door; despite her room being the only one on this portion of hallway, you don't want to risk standing outside it too long. “Miss Venable,” You smile with a quick sideways glance down the hall. You’ve been extra vigilant tonight since the near-miss with Mr Gallant and Coco, heeding Miss Venables warnings to take the scenic route around the Outpost.

She understands the motion, her too not wanting to draw attention to you both leaving the dinner table early. So Miss Venable ushers you inside and you step around her, waiting as always for her direction. She leans on the door until it closes, then turns the long brass key to lock it.

Satisfied you’re safely alone, Miss Venable turns to face you, one arm still clutching her portfolio; but you find your curiosity not given the chance to linger, for she is stepping inside your personal space and reaching deftly to lift the pendant from your chest, playing it in her fingers with soft fascination. You can’t help the faint blush that creeps up your neck, her touch so idle and tender, indulgent of her thoughts. To get such attentions just after you’ve walked in and not yet earned it? It feels, sacred almost, the way she rubs it with her thumb.

“Miss Venable - “ You want to ask, but you don't know how. You want to say thank you, if it really is a gift, and you want to believe it is.

Her way of expressing an emotion she couldn't understand.

As if seeing herself in the mirror of your eyes, her hand suddenly retracts, stiffening and gesturing you further into the lounge, having at least acknowledged your obedience in wearing it. “Come through. Take that chair, would you?” She instructs vaguely, and you meander over to it but not knowing what to do from there.

You plump the cushion expecting something more, but nothing comes from her and you’re forced to clarify. She seems, _unsteady_ , almost. Like the image of her was flickering and not set, an instability you hadn’t seen in her eyes since she first fell and was vulnerable enough to admit to needing your help, letting you escort her to her room. “Take it? Do you mean sit in it - “

“I mean take it. _Move it_ \- through there to the bedroom,” She replies, her voice dripping in deadpan sarcasm, indicating the direction with her hand. “Attempting such a thing one-handed would have been _futile,”_ Miss Venable says mocking you before you even say anything - not that you would. You’re not just respectful but covered in the marks of your obedience - but its as if she feels it necessary to get the first word in, explain _why_ she hasn’t done it herself.

Miss Venable was a master of denial, you grumble quietly to yourself for the hundredth time, knocking the chair back onto its hind legs and dragging it through the bedroom under her watchful eye.

You keep following her hand signals and end up placing it at the end of the bed, about a foot away, and you tuck your hands behind your back, a quizzical look on your face. Miss Venable is almost enjoying your bemusement, her tongue resting between her lips mysteriously. “Now the coffee table.”

Your eyebrow forms a perfect frown but you oblige anyway, saying nothing until you’ve placed it down next to the chair. “I’m probably not the best at moving furniture, if you’re, wanting to reorganise or …”

“Its only temporary.” Wilhemina eases herself around the chair and neatly sits, tucking her skirts under with one hand. Foregoing the cane momentarily, she leans it against her thigh allowing her to bring her portfolio onto her lap and unzip it slowly around the three sides, rescuing the thin boxes of pencils and charcoal before they fall. “Take off your clothes.” She says it almost so casually you don't hear her, and it takes a second to sink in.

You watch as Miss Venable busies herself with sheets of paper, old sketches in amongst the unused pages, and she has to sort them out in her lap. You peer curiously, your feet stepping out of your shoes and unzipping the side of your dress, fingers moving without your direct thought because your interest is on her. Figures, faces, bodies, the same male faces drawn over and over on one sheet, practices perhaps? They seemed to have done hastily, the lines jagged and angry.

Wilhemina tries to ignore you, _this isn't about you._ She needs to take her mind off things. Whether its knowing 18 months has passed and there has been no word from The Co-operative that has triggered such nostalgic feelings in her, or the wondering if her fate was going to end up intertwining with hers after all, simply apart, and not together as Wilhemina had planned.

Perhaps this was what staring down the long tunnel of death looked like, ghosts from her past springing to life again in her mind. Wilhemina’s fingers twitched. _She was dead, blasted to ashes on that roof there was nothing to be done about nothing to gain from letting these feelings remain, they had to be removed, or remoulded_ \- Miss Venable glances to you, as you slowly bare your body for her with quiet obedience. She feels her heart rate settle a little.

You get down to your underwear and reach your arms awkwardly behind your back to yank at the laces of the corset, but your fingers pause, your arms dropping to your sides again as she sharpens one of her new pencils. There’s a drawing, in amongst other half-done figures, that somehow calls out to you. You reach the tips of your fingers to the papers, sliding them apart to pick up this one in particular, a young woman resting on a pale blue chaise lounge, a hint of colour to the picture where the others are plain graphite.

Wilhemina stills, her head quivering to turn and glance at you, but she stops herself. She orders her body not to react. Its nothing. Just a drawing.

“She’s beautiful …,” You murmur, taking in the picture, the love somehow woven into the image of the woman. She’s wearing a necklace, and its strikingly similar to the pendant around your own neck. Your fingers reach for it without thinking, holding it up in front of your eyes to compare them. “Who is she?” The drawing is snatched from your hands and you blink at her abrupt stealing of the image.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s dead.” Miss Venable slides it between the other pages caching it for later.

The gravity of her words are powerful. “Oh, I’m sorry,” You say softly, the words confusing themselves even to you. To say you’re sorry, when you knew nothing of what did or didn’t happen to this girl seemed worthless, but you’ve perhaps contributed to the shift of her mood and for that you are regretful. It was impossible terrain to traverse when you didn't know where the pot-holes and traps were one could accidentally fall into, find yourself say something you she’d rather not hear. “I shouldn’t have …,” You trail off anxiously, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement - but as always her forgiveness is not easily given.

She ignores you until you’re fully undressed, brushing the remains of her pencil sharpening into her cupped hand and tipping them onto the coffee table. You shift your weight back and for through your hips, goosebumps prickling your bare skin.

“We’ve all lost people,” Miss Venable offers cryptically, and with her things prepared across her lap, she beckons you over slowly sliding her long fingerless gloves off. “Come to me.” She leans her head letting her eyes trail your naked body as you pad silently across the wooden floor, your hands tucked in front of you. Body confidence was never your thing, especially with the mangled messes you’d seen of bodies at work.

You’re standing, her sitting, so your hips are around her shoulder level and its easy for her to let her arm laze out, for her fingers to graze the front of your hips, nothing in the way of denying herself. Your cheeks pink a little, your nakedness feeling different like this, with her examining eye, than when you're on the floor under her scolding hand. “I see you did as you were told.” Her gaze flicks up to you, her tongue catching coyly on her canine as she smirks ever so slightly, her fingers stroking through the softness between your legs, fully shaved as she requested. It was easier to draw like that.

“I - uh … yes, Miss Venable.” Your words quiver from your lips, her touch exciting your nerve-endings and sparking an almost instant arousal, of which she was fully and painfully aware.

She revels in the confidence boost your whimpering gives her. “Lie down then, before you fall down.”

“On the, bed?” You didn't want to assume, it isn’t as if she often allowed you that.

“Only for tonight. I can’t exactly draw you properly when you’re on the floor,” She lifted her things to the coffee table and shifting her weight forward, pressing on her cane to stand and turn her hips following around to sit on the edge of the bed next to you.

With her ungloved hand she reaches for you, indicating she wants you closer. “Open your thighs.” Her voice almost purrs, and your core clenches at just her words, but then her fingers are touching you and your brain is racing. _She never did this? Why was she doing this?_

Your body relaxes wonderfully, pheromones surging through your bloodstream making you feel light and wondrous as she plays you between the legs, one finger flicking and nudging at your clit, circling it with deft movement, “Thank you, Miss Venable, whatever I’ve - I mean, done to … thank you …”

She snorts a laugh. “Dear me, don't get yourself too carried away,” Miss Venable shakes her head at you, using her arm to push her fingers inside you with cool manipulation, her features barely breaking, glancing around the room giving you no attention at all as she pumps her fingers and squeezes your clit and pushes your body towards a seemingly inevitable high that you’re quickly gasping for. “Its only to flush your skin a little, you’ve had no sunlight in 18 months you’re as pale as anything - “ Finally, turning her head she returns her gaze to you as if inspecting the dilation of your capillaries at various points across your chest, your belly, the silken gleam on your labia. Miss Venable hums a little, and removes her fingers. “There.”

Your body jerks at the sudden emptiness, your thigh muscles quivering for more, tensing and clenching and needing her back. But Miss Venable is already on her feet, turning to sit back in the chair and not giving you a second glance. “Ohh… ,” You groan hungrily, rolling onto one side closing your aching legs with bitter need.

“Such slaves to your sexual appetites, its sickening …,” Wilhemina mutters cruelly as she arranges her papers on her lap, picking up the correct pencil from the line of them. “Look this way - “ She visualises in her mind how she wants you. A growl tickles her throat and she's forced to reach her hand to her cane, rap it on the floor for your attention.

You flinch, and glance over your shoulder. “I said look at me - _thankyou,_ ” She seems more frustrated than before, as if the atmosphere wasn’t as relaxed as it had been. You’d barely been with her a a few minutes, but this wasn’t like any other evening you’d spent in her company. The pattern was different, no foreplay, no direct commands, no panting exertions as she worked out her frustrations on you, your body bending to her will and groaning to its climax - if she would allow such digressions. “Stay like that, now _don’t_ _move_ ,” She emphasises with a heavy seriousness to her voice, her hand raising to halt your shuffling movements. 

You try to jerk and twitch each muscle that felt awkward, resigning to yourself to keeping still, to ignoring the agonising throbbing inside you and between your legs that was simply left to beat on its own, untouched and unfinished. You press your eyes shut, for even the sight of her dark eyes and chestnut brown make-up, how it accentuates her cheekbones and softens her lips was enough to keep the fire burning in your belly.

Miss Venable has at least got a willing subject in you, and has worked on you hard enough that you would obediently follow her instructions even if you didn't always understand them, or her. So she urges herself to find contentment, simply move her pencil and sketch your outline, her eyes flicking from the paper to you every few seconds, manipulating her hand movements to curve the nib of the pen into realistic shapes, wanting to quieten her mind, and not only to see what was _wrong_.

It should be her, lying on the bed, not you. The girl she left behind and not the replacement. Your hips were a different curve and the angle of your knees - Miss Venable sniffed a tight breath shaking her head to herself as she worked.

You try and find comfort in the fact she's pleased enough to be sketching you, that somehow her use of you has started to extend beyond simply pain management, but that you too gave her a companionship she silently craves. Being the leader of anywhere, is a lonely place to find oneself, let alone at the end of the world, slowly starving and doing your best with what was left of civilised life, eking our your existence until there was no more time, no more cubes.

For what else did you have to look forward to, except slowly dying here? You didn't want to die, but denying this obvious fact was the easiest thing to do, find meaning instead in these last few weeks by being with her, in whatever way she was willing to give you.

For there would be no-one else for you, after Wilhemina Venable.

She kept her eyes moving, back and for, from the paper to you, sketching and forming your figure on the paper, over and over again. She rips the paper suddenly from the pad and crumples it into a ball throwing it angrily to the floor. Wilhemina starts again, a loose circle for your head, your ribs, hips and joining them in smooth lines, looking at you again, the corner of her lips twitching and her grip tightening on the pencil until she stabs the paper with it, breaking the grey nib and pushing all of it off her lap impulsively. “Its not - you’re not … “ She keeps shaking her head as if the picture before her simply doesn’t compute.

Wilhemina snatches her cane and stands, gritting her teeth closing her features down before she feels anything _more,_ before these differences make her _hate you_ for not being _her_ ; this wasn’t right but there was nothing she could do, no way to control it and the building anger was making her shake. “Just get out. Get your clothes and get out - “ Miss Venable yells, seething with a sudden fury that made her want to blow the whole Outpost to hell. Why should she care for you or any of these awful people when the Co-operative couldn’t do her the _one thing_ it promised her, to save the woman she loved?

That was her pre-condition and they failed to deliver; and as much as terrorising the Guests had kept her going given her a little taste of the sweet revenge she wanted, making them all suffer as she was suffering - it didn’t temper her need to be _loved._

The outburst startles you, but you don't want to argue. This isn’t frustration, she was _livid_. Although you worry for her, you know her temper scares you too. “O-okay …,” You murmur, sitting up and sliding your ass off the bed to find your clothes.

“I had plans for this place, it wasn’t meant be like this,” Her heart starts to tear. “It wasn’t meant to be just me, alone, doing all this _on my own_ \- I am human, in case you haven't noticed, I’m sure - some of the people here think me simply cold and _unfeeling_ , but I need things too I need people too - “ Miss Venable spits angrily, pacing stiffly on her cane down the room and back again, her free hand balling into a fist then jabbing the air pointing at unknown faces of The Co-operative, the people who did this to her, as her desperate control threatens to crack. Tears well up in her eyes, something she never thought possible after encasing her heart in ice the way she had that day, arriving at the Outpost alone, with her things but not _her_ , not the one person that made anything make sense. She’d locked those feelings away, and had foolishly thought now, now it had been long enough, that time has passed and she could fetch old things, out relive the person she used to be, make herself _new_ memories.

But the old ones had never been dealt with.

“I know, Miss Venable,” You whisper, you have no idea what she's feeling or what she's going through but you know grief when you see it. But you slip into your underthings and lace the corset up quickly, your nakedness no long in context when she's not wanting it from you anymore.

“They may as well have killed me too, leaving her like that like she didn't _matter_ \- “ Tears spill from her eyes as her emotions flood from her soul, crashing through every dam she had built to hold them back. It was too much, the hunger and the loneliness and the fear - death was coming for all of you and she would have to face it alone, you weren’t the one she wanted and she couldn’t keep caning you and pretending that it was _enough._ “And you! Coming here getting your kicks feeling _special_ by helping me being the _only person_ with the knowledge to help me - but its not - its not what you _want,_ hell I’m sure you find it erotic and feel some sexual gratification from it God _knows_ how wet you get the moment I touch you but its not - submitting is not in your nature and don't pretend like it is,” She snarls. “You might _enjoy_ it but its not _natural_ for you. You don't belong on your knees and you know it. I know it.” 

Her words wound you deeper than you could let yourself admit. Your breathing stalls, your pulse whipping around your body sending adrenaline to the tips of your fingers and you rub them tightly together. You hang your head, knowing you’ve failed her. You’d been trying _so hard_ , to be everything she needed you to be. And yes, you enjoyed it. Kneeling at her feet, taking her commands with a freeing obedience that helped you forget the person you used to be, the life _you_ had left behind too.

Its the only time you would really feel alive was when you were with her, her fist knotting your hair and yanking your head back to bite you, tie your hands and throw you to the floor at her mercy; you knew the moment your body was given a second you would clench your thighs almost able to come from just this tight friction. It was _incredible_ , how her punishment made you feel, as though the rest of the Outpost was just a blur, something unreal that your body did by rote, sitting at the dinner table going back to bed, moving mechanically like a shell of the real you and only coming to life again when you were in her rooms, on the floor by the fire with her boots on your back.

But those were selfish reasons, and the release she got from it was _her being selfish too_. Neither of you did it for the other. You were both guilty, both using each other in your own ways to fill a void that the Apocalypse had left you with. “You loved her, didn't you,” You say gently, foregoing bothering with your dress, you knew you weren't leaving and she didn't really want you to. So you sit on the edge of her bed in a poignant sort of numbness, digging your fingers into the bedspread to keep yourself from shaking. 

Her eyes glare at you demandingly, her pacing steps halting. “What are you _talking_ about?”

You lift your eyes. “That girl in the picture.”

“I’m not - this isn't about _her_.” Wilhemina blinks, her voice dipping as if what you’re intimating is simply absurd, frightened by how confronted she feels. She swipes her tears quickly dry from her cheeks denying their very existence, her grip tightening on her cane and walking past you out of the bedroom not wanting to think about this anymore. It had been a silly idea, going into her bags, letting out something from her past as if she was that person anymore. She wasn’t.

She had Stu killed, she ordered the death of two Greys for their rule breaking; would she have done any of that if the woman she needed at her side was there? The who could temper and talk to her, strike the match and illuminate her dark places, coax her away from her pain and back to sweet kisses in the sunset.

Miss Venables answer confirms the thoughts you had repressed, that this necklace left for you on the bed, the unspoken gesture wasn’t _yours,_ it isn’t meant for you. You’d dared to believe, until you had seen the drawing. “You gave me her necklace.” You rise from the bed, wanting to go to after her, needing to understand needing her to admit it. Everything you had done together, and it wasn’t enough.

“Actually I didn't hers was Amethyst,” Miss Venable snaps pettily, her temperament tetchy and difficult, with all her grief finally hitting her she couldn’t help the walls trying to build themselves back up trying to keep herself safely in control where she could, pointing out to you your wrongs like this would somehow make all the difference.

Miss Venable headed to her desk, ignoring your presence behind her as she tugged open the middle drawer. You know whats in there, and that its not going to help. “I can’t … I cant be her,” Your voice breaks, wet tears threatening in your own eyes. You watch her unscrew the whisky bottle abandoning the cap carelessly, letting it roll right off the table as she pours herself a far too generous glass, considering how little is left in the bottle. “Whoever she is that you want me to be …”

“I thought I told you to _leave_ ,” Miss Venable growls over her shoulder. She had made a fool of herself, thinking she could simply forget, be her lilac self like nothing had happened in between. That you could be anything but a shadow of the woman she loved. Her breath hitches when she feels your hand on her hip, gently holding her from behind.

“I don’t think you really want me to,” You breathe, sighing your body against hers and gently leaning your chin behind her shoulder, touching your lips there as she had to you at the beginning of all this.

Miss Venable has to let go of the whisky glass, not even drunk, for she needs both hands on her cane to to keep herself standing, her body feeling as though it could collapse against the desk her grief buckling her legs, her cane the only thing holding her steady. “Get off me,” She sniffs, shaking her head at you. 

“No.” You wonder if anyone has ever, truly said that to her.

Wilhemina cups her hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, bending over, her grief hitting her full force for the very first time. You loop you arms around her waist just as her legs give way, taking her weight and easing her around so you can help her to the only chair left in the room. Her arm comes around her middle buckling as she falls into the chair, your arms giving her space to ease back. “Go, _please_ … go.” She tried to force some power into her words but there was nothing there.

You lower yourself slowly to the floor in front of her, giving her that position she feels strongest in, your hand remaining on her knee although she isn't _and stubbornly wont_ look at you. But a therapeutic touch is a tool in itself and you need her to know you're there. _Someone is there for her_. “I know I‘m not who you want. I understand that,” You grant her, taking a breath before saying it. “But I’m not leaving you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I know I'm usually a chapter per 2-3 days kinda gal but I was away in the forest. (no, really)
> 
> —
> 
> I've used the odd line from the show, as the fic scenes meld with, before, and after scenes from the show. So I've used lines (disclaimer: they don't belong to me) simply to show how things interlink and play out differently now the reader is involved.

It isn’t long before Ms Mead comes knocking with insistent news, saying with a touch too much devilish excitement that she had caught Emily and Timothy holding hands in the upper hallways, and that she has long suspected them of getting up to no-good. Miss Venable however, was feeling less than interested.

“I’ve just never had any proof up until now.” Mead lets her hands fall at her sides, taking a breath before uttering what she wants in front of you, your presence in Miss Venables room a stain on the purity of it. “We need to punish them. Put a stop to it before it gets any further.” Her dark features frown a little at Venable, her usual intensity lost somewhere.

The fact Miss Venable was even tolerating her in the room right now was only to take her mind off the overwhelming grief that clouded her every thought. But that didn't make her _welcome,_ either.

Miss Venable turns her eyes only briefly to Mead, her tight-jawed displeasure at the interruption evident. “Thats still no proof of anything.” A quick rap of her cane was enough to expose her irritation, her head turning away to stare back into the fire, having not moved for some time from the chair you had eased her into. “And I don’t take kindly to being disturbed without good reason.” Her cane raps the floor idly, cogs ticking over in her mind. “I therefore give you authority to deal with any, _minor_ infractions until the morning.”

Mead drops her head briefly in acknowledgement of the order. “Miss Venable.” She draws tall and marches to the door, brimming with the vague increase in status despite her revelation not receiving the smile she had wanted from Venable. Halfway to the door she calls you over with her arm. “Come along. Miss Venable wants her peace and quiet,” Mead barks, and you blink at her. It wasn’t as though she had addressed you up until now and certainly Miss Venable had not intimated she wants you out.

“She stays,” Miss Venable corrects her, eyes not breaking from the hypnotic way and unblinking way she was staring into the flames of the fireplace.

Mead almost spits feathers, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile from blooming. If Miss Venable had not noticed how entrenched her guard-dogs loyalty was before now, this will certainly expose it. “But what about dinner? Won’t the other Guests - ”

Miss Venable clacks her cane loudly, emphatically. Her frown is hard, and unwavering when she drags her gaze from the dancing colours of the fireplace to throw daggers in Meads direction. “She stays.” She barks, and you push off the desk to wander over to Miss Venable, standing behind her still only in your underwear, for the room was more than warm enough, and even to Meads utter denial of your existence, such things should make it obvious enough for her to draw conclusions. “You will take my place, at the head of the table until breakfast.”

Mead didn’t try contain her ire, grinding her teeth at you in jealousy. “They’ll start talking. Both of you being absent.”

“You have your orders.” Miss Venable didn't give an inch, and with nothing more to be said Mead conceded, and left you both alone. As soon as her door closed, she indicates with a flick of her wrist for you to lock it, leaning her forehead in her fingers letting her eyes fall shut again. Gathering herself for the sake of her public face had been more taxing even for those few minutes than she cared to admit. There was, little point of leaving her room this evening, not with the heaviness that would lie under her eyes, the bleary look to her usually immaculate make-up. _Whispers, would be uttered, stolen glances amongst the Guests keen to see her undoing._ Wilhemina could not tolerate that. 

You fold your arms, and return to where you had been before the Mead’s intrusion, sitting on the edge of the fireplace beside Miss Venables calf. Its not totally submissive, for you’re not on your knees and you’re not facing her square on, but its low enough that she feels her position over you, and right now that is all she has to keep her going. “Are you sure about this, Miss Venable?” You don't want to second guess her, but her judgement could be understandably off right now, with the grieving process she was staring to go through.

“Oh let them talk,” She crows, shaking her head to herself. “Like Ms Mead, they have no proof of anything. Just accusations, wild and inappropriate.”

The eking out of the cubes was going to buy you a few more weeks at the outside, and for the first time Wilhemina was regretting her decision to destroy all the food and drink that was not plain grey meal-replacement cubes, and water.

Your finger taps anxiously on your leg, shifting so you’re facing her and your back is to the fire. “But true.” Your eyes lift to hers, and although she gives you a look to _back-off,_ you hold it firm, and don't look away. Admitting her girlfriend was dead, seemed to Miss Venable equally as hard as accepting _you_ were here, and weren’t going away. Your fingertips graze her calf, and she sniffs dismissively.

“Facts become irrelevant when you can explain away anything with a chocolate bar and a can of diet soda,” Miss Venable scorns, though her foot shifts subtly forwards, giving you more of her calf to play with. A side-glance tells you to keep going, and your touch grows more confident, rubbing the back of her calf muscle in soft pressured circles. You hear a calming exhale from her lips, and she glances away again.

“I’m not sure I understand,” You brave her wrath to life her foot by the ankle, laying her lower leg over your knees allowing you a better angle to massage her. She would not admit to enjoying it, but theres something healing about your touch, _human contact_ that was freely given and not demanded by her in crisp clear instructions. 

Wilhemina gripped her cane tighter, pressing her palm into the indentations of the sculpted head, hoping to impress it there, mould herself to it, to be part of it and wield it without weakness. That she could be as unyielding as her cane is, put aside her natural hesitation and do what needed to be done. Thats how she had felt back then, anyway. “I took the food. When we first arrived here. All of it,” Miss Venable confessed with an almost clinical coolness, one so distant from the lives and feelings of those she was supposed to care for, that such a decision could be made without inhibition without thought, setting aside her own humanity almost, to shorten the survival time of the Outpost.

Your mouth gapes, then closes before she has the chance to witness your dismay. “There’s more food?” You had thought Miss Venable incapable of shocking you with her behaviour anymore.But purposefully causing the combined suffering of everyone in the Outpost, even herself? Her whole gambit was meant to be to protect the Outpost. Save humanity, not intentionally let it fail.

“Was.” She corrects you, sliding her leg from your lap to push herself onto her feet, able enough to finally leave your tenderness and return to her desk for the whisky she poured hours ago, and had yet to touch. “The Co-operative took everything from me, so I wanted to take their _precious Outpost_ from them. Destroy any false ideas that they would have a comfortable life here.” Her hand grabbed for the glass with a careless swipe, shaking her head bitterly. Had it all just been for nought? This last 18 months of living, surviving, her goal of _simply staying alive_ achieved. She has that to her credit, but what was the cost?

Did she really have to lose her own humanity, to make it possible?

“You wanted us to suffer,” You watch her go, not your place to stop her. She was moving through the stages, from blanket denial where she had languished, to todays pain and moving swiftly through to anger. Bargaining. Giving reasoning to the arguably, terrible time the Outpost had had, at her hands.

Miss Venable stared at the bottom of her whisky glass, the deep amber liquid hypnotically swirling round and around like a whirlpool she could happily fall into, never to find the surface or breath, again. “Yes.” She tossed her head back and swallowed a gulp of it, remembering the way _she_ had put the glass to her nose, detecting the faint notes of Miss Venable’s favourite whisky-sour, the lone flirting interest that had piqued her interest so keenly that one birthday, years ago.

You run your hands over your hair, longing for something to slouch in, to dress and simply be here, be yourself and not what Miss Venable has been trying to mould you all into. All this time, you had reserved your energy, filled your hours with books, waited out the storm thinking something would be happening - somehow you would move facilities, that this laborious process of detoxing her, cleaning her system of opiates and yet managing her pain would somehow be worth it. _But she was simply going to letting you all starve?_

“Has it, helped?” You say, wounded somehow by her carelessness for the lives of the others, when you had been so dedicated in caring for her. Reducing her dose, prising the needle from her hands when she had needed more, giving your body and your integrity to her, letting her use you and fuck you and slap your cheek, each time coming back for more, because _you enjoyed it._

Miss Venable doesn’t deign you with an answer, only a glare over the rim of her whisky glass. After a few long sips to burn away any feeling in her throat, she starts across the room to you, the slight blur to her eye make-up giving her eyes the impression of being even darker, poisonous, and wholly magnetic. You follow her with your gaze until she comes to a stop barely inches from your knees, calling you to sit at her feet with a curl of her finger. You shift from the edge of the fireplace forward onto your knees, taking an anticipatory breath as you feel her fingers graze under your chin, lifting your eyes to her. “You’ll stay with me tonight.” She determines your fate with a warm murmur. “Or you may take the rug, though as we have established its not your inclination unless I order you to.”

You want to despise her for the things she’s confessed, destroying food, permitting and encouraging the difficulties you’ve all had under her reign. But your objective mind is clear _why_ she did it. Where its all come from, and you’re certain Miss Venable has only come to that realisation tonight, as well. And with your inconceivably good nature, you understand. Grief makes people do strange things, even self-flagellating things. “Where do _you_ want me to be, Miss Venable?”

She encourages you to stand with a lift of her hand, and once you’re up you feel her hand curl around your wrist, holding you firm. “By my side.” Her face is resolute like it once always was. “No-one can survive entirely on their own, even me.” Miss Venable admitted, her voice low and husky, as though she hated herself for acknowledging such human debilitation. Its somehow comforting to know she was learning how to be herself again, after the death of her girlfriend had finally knocked her walls down. You’re cant be sure however, because no-one could overcome the death of a loved one in a single evening, however determined they wanted to pretend to be. It was going to hit her again, and you needed to be there for her when it did.

You nod slowly. “We’re all human, Miss Venable.” She re-fixes then tightens her fingers around your wrist again.

“Hmm.” She grumbled quietly. She wouldn’t accept her feebleness _that_ far. Miss Venable was confident of her superiority to the idiots she was forced to preside over. “Come along.” Wilhemina turns, keeping a hold of you and half-drags you back toward the bedroom, as if you would even leave her now after this. “You can help me change. Seeing as you’re already _like that_ ,” Her demeaning gaze casts over you thinly pursing her lips. Such a state of undress is not a thing Miss Venable would usually tolerate unless during sessions but, it seemed tonight her standards had lapsed a little, for understandable reasons.

You lope along behind her obediently, your chest fluttering despite her emotional turmoil, at being brought back into her bedroom. Its where she wanted you; she felt not just comfortable with you here, but _powerful._ It was her sanctuary. As she lets your hand go and taps her fingers on her shoulder for you to make a start on her dress, you question her, “Would you, rather I dress, Miss Venable?” You come behind her as told, unzipping hers and standing back keeping your gaze low and respectful. She shrugs her shoulders out, clutching it over her front with one hand as she waves you to the chest of drawers with the other.

“I’d rather you with nothing on at all,” Wilhemina muses, unclipping the wide belt catching it in her hand before it tumbles to the floor uncared for. You take her things, the belt, lace blouse, let her peel the front of her dress down leaning on her cane to step out of it, leaving only her petticoat on, ignoring you as you tidy away her dress and things on hangars and in drawers; giving her her nightdress in exchange.

When she was done, she gladly takes to the edge of the bed, and awkwardly starts pulling the pins from her neat up-do, curling her shoulders to the side needing to accommodate the curve of her back in reaching around her hair. “I’m waiting.” Wilhemina sends you a pointed look, her eyes imperceptibly dark, as if you could fall into the depths of them like a cave-hidden whirlpool where all the water seemed black and you didn't know which way was up.

You press your toes to the floor, willing yourself to climb your way out of their depths. “Yes Miss Venable,” You reply neatly, reaching around for your corset laces, feeling it inappropriate to smirk despite the budding flirtatious lilt to her voice.

You dare yourself to steal a glance, your cheeks blushing when you find her staring straight at you. Her cane clacks appreciatively on the floor, lifting her chin just slightly as she slowly gives herself permission again to enjoy your body, knowing that you weren’t the same, but that that was okay. “Good girl.”

—————

You wake with a bewildering blink of your eyes, taking a second to get your bearings, feeling as though your eyes are glued together from tiredness. The emotional burden of keeping Miss Venable together has increased tenfold last night, now you find yourself caretaker not just for her voracious sexual appetite, but her emotional recovery too.

As you turn your head and gaze at her asleep on the pillow beside you, she seems _calm,_ and you realise you’ve never seen her face without a frown. Though her arms and legs are tucked tight around herself, clutching the quilt with tense knuckles, even in her sleep; her face is relaxed, peaceful almost. With her long red hair tumbling messily around her face you understand what the girlfriend had seen in her. You too had stared, for a long time before anything had caused you to dare speak to her.

But part of you can’t help but continue to ponder what she was like, before all of this. Before nuclear winter came and froze her heart along with reducing the rest of the world to a radioactive wasteland.

As soon as she woke however, the tension in her jaw returned, the sharpness to her eyes and she glowered at you from across the bed, saying nothing as you both dress. Admitting she had needed the companionship of another human was obviously _not_ something she could come to terms with verbally, so you went along with it, and stayed quiet.

You’d entered the dining room alone, last to the table, smiling politely to Emily next to you, knowing it would be a few more minutes before Miss Venable joined you. But once she did, and sat, it seemed business as usual had returned to the woman’s agenda. No more crying no more grief, no more feeling anything at all.

“I have an announcement to make,” Miss Venable sighs tiredly; the fateful night had ruined her enthusiasm for her usual severity this morning, plus this repetitive routine was just getting _old_. It wore out her patience to the thinnest she could muster, without actually snapping.

“Another one?” Mr Gallant complains dryly, poking his half-cube withfinger watching it wobble.

You want to put your hand across the table to hers, feeling this would be the time to show your support. For when the Guests and Greys start to revolt then the fragile system she had created and maintained on fear alone, would crumble, and Gallant was seeming anything but respectful this morning.

But such an emotive gesture would not be welcome with the tension she was displaying. When and if the time came that she confirmed your association, it would be more symbolic than that. “This will be our last breakfast. We’re cutting back to one meal a day.”

You stare at your unpalatable half-cube with new eyes. Knowing what you know now about the rest of the food stores wasn’t helpful. How they had been plundered and emptied before anyone knew of them? Or had it been too early on to be aware of the significance of their destruction? What could you have been eating if she hadn’t made that rash sadistic decision to punish you all? Would she still have to ration like she was now?

“How can anyone survive on half a cube?”

Miss Venable grinds her teeth, because its not as though she is unaffected by the consequences of her decision to ration, either. She too would have to gut it out a little longer, numb the hunger pangs with something. _Someone._

“Its not optimal, but not impossible,” She replies, her gaze levelling on you with silently grateful eyes, although Wilhemina is all too aware that since last night you know perhaps, _too much._ If your loose affections are turned the wrong way, then you could become a threat.

“I fucking can’t take this anymore!” Mr Gallant flips, leaping to his feet and knocking his chair to the ground. He grabs his plate tossing it like a frisbee to the wall, porcelain crashing against stone as he - _as you suspected was going to happen,_ finally cracks. Ms Mead and The Fist round on him quickly. “C’mon! C’mon what’cha gonna do shoot me? Huh?” He taunts them, dancing his feet around with a crazed expression on his face. The whole table including you jump at the crashing sound, more worried for him and what Miss Venable would do to him than the fact you’re all staring down the edge of starvation.

Miss Venable rolls her eyes at the insipid display of immaturity, pushing back her chair slowly deciding that her stern reprimand would be better delivered while standing. Your eyes follow her as she stands, then your turn anxiously in your chair toward Mr Gallant wondering if this is the last time you’re going to see him. But just as she was about to speak, her words are stalled in her mouth by a sudden blaring siren, red circular lights twirling brightly around the room.

“Perimeter Alert. Theres been a breach.” The Fist calls out, turning the attention of the whole room onto sudden, more existential threats. 

With Ms Mead they dispatch themselves to the outside, ready to fulfil their duty and protect the Outpost, no matter the cost. The twirling red light makes the potential danger at your door feel even more immediate, raising everyones adrenaline and quickly sending the group into a panic.

Miss Venable knows she needs to act quickly to keep them under control. “Into the Music Room. All of you. We’ll re-convene when we’re sure that the Outpost is secure.” There is fretting frightened chatter among them all, Purples and Greys alike but for once they’re glad of being told what to do, of Miss Venables level head. You make to follow them, but you feel her fingers dig into your elbow stalling you. “Not you.” Your eyes widen, but say nothing in reply. You have to trust she knows what she's doing, even now, with the cloud of grief hanging over her and a budding revolution on her hands, you have to trust this woman and that she will make the right decision against whatever is about to break down your doors.

You follow her through the Outpost, doing nothing but be a presence at her side as she passes curt orders onto Guards at different points, organising some to remain in the Music Room with the guests and maintain order, others sent to key locations around the Outpost. You’re quietly in awe of how together she appears, even through sheer stubbornness of will, she would maintain her self-given standards until the end.

A message is finally relayed from the surface. The Guard speaks in hushed tones leaning himself toward Miss Venable as he delivers it. _Theres no breach. Its some representative of The Co-operative, by the name of Michael Langdon. He’s asking for you_. The Guard steps back again, drawing tall, his position well drilled into him.

Miss Venable takes the news with a clear nod of the head, expressing seemingly no emotion to the news, which is in dire contradiction to your peaking interest. You’d never met anyone from The Co-operative, knew nothing of the organisation except the tidbits of rules and regulations Miss Venable had passed on, leading the way in their stead.

She makes her way carefully down the stone spiral staircase, unusually - though you’ve never walked anywhere with her in public for there for to be a _usually,_ either, taking you by the forearm for security, or balance, or both. You're not keen walking too near to the inside of the steps either, seeing as there is literally no handrail or safety guard of any kind. But its these things that she needs you for, and it makes you feel more than a little special that she trusts you enough, to be comfortable reaching for you in these quiet moments.

“What does he want?” You glance to her as you descend the staircase together, keeping your voice low for fear of your words echoing in the high chamber.

The muscles in the corner of her eye twitch sensitively. “Unfortunately, Telepathy is not a skill I have ever come to possess,” Miss Venable drawls sarcastically, defending her lack of ability with pointed barbs.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs her had slips from you, settling herself, rolling her shoulders back despite the slight hunch to the right. Your clinical brain debates the possibility that she has pain she’s not relaying to you, since last night it would be understandable. Emotional pain often manifested physically, somehow, and she had already struggled to overcome the lack of medications as it was. “Is your back - ” You start to ask, concerned. Now is not the time for such weaknesses. Miss Venable sends you a sharp look, and you swallow your words. “I’m sorry, Miss Venable.” Her fingers twitch atop her cane, fighting an urge. Your eyes are drawn to the tiny, meaningful movement, your chest tightening. “Sorry…,” You breathe your apology again, and she presses on her cane stepping an inch closer to you, so close you can feel her breath on your neck, the sharp jabbing of her cane’s beak into your hipbone.

Miss Venable sucks her lower lip as she grazes her fingers across your cheek, her eyes roaming every imperfection on your skin settling on your lips with burning temptation. You had been given an intimacy that went deeper than her enjoyment in bending you and caning you, teaching you obedience. But perhaps in her recklessness, letting herself _feel_ , miss the woman she really wanted, she had given too much away, and it was ruining her work on you. “You stayed in my bed, but that does _not_ give you the right to talk to me as your equal.” Her touch is chillingly cool, as though the lines of where her fingers run sting your skin; but its her words that are creating your guilt. Her hand moves slowly down your jaw, to your neck. Your breath hitches, your chin lifting a touch to open your airways as her fingers tighten. “Open your mouth again, and I’ll enjoy what comes next _far_ more than you.” Miss Venable breathes threateningly, her lips moving hotly on your ear as her hand constricts, gripping your throat tighter, making her point obvious. Your head quivers a nod, your jaw clamped shut. “Good girl.”

As she takes her hand away, you release a burning breath from your chest. _What had you been thinking? Asking her something so personal, out here in public, with someone from The Co-operative waiting for them?_ You kick yourself. You can’t make mistakes like that with Wilhemina Venable.

Miss Venable sends her cane forward and walks steadily, checking with a small turn of her head that you had fallen in step just behind her, slightly to the side. You were remembering your place, and that gave Wilhemina the surge of confidence she needed to deal with this, _Michael Langdon_ and whatever news he was going to bring from The Co-operative.

As you head into her Office, turning to present herself ready for Outpost 3’s first visitor, you cant help but fear what would happen if he found out _you_ were here. That Miss Venable let you stay but you hadn’t paid any money, you hadn’t been chosen for your perfect genetics, it was fluke. _Chance that you survived at all._ What if he kicked you out? Blamed Venable for the wasted resources?

Then again, if he found out the things _she_ had done? You had little to worry about in comparison.

A man approached through the central hallway; you could see his silhouette moving around the large, well tended fire, your heckles rose in self defence. The atmosphere began to feel pressured, your anticipation manifesting more as unease, than excitement. Miss Venable seemed to visibly stiffen, her fight and flight instinct causing her joints to freeze. Her fingers were trembling and she adjusted and readjusted the grip of her cane, over and again, the only thing that gave away that she was a real person and not a wax statuette, for she was otherwise so absolutely still you wondered if she was breathing at all. You shift your weight to your foot nearest to her, gravitating your presence closer, wanting to somehow help reduce her silent suffering.

The man enters through the large sliding doors, two Greys drawing them closed on their rollers either side of where he’d stepped through, and she draws somehow taller, more authoritarian. He has long, honey blonde-brown hair and dark eyes, walking with an air of something theatrical about him. Tight dark trousers and a velvet dinner jacket give him an almost vampiric look. He reminds you of some 90’s gothic films you saw at some stage, when these things were popular.

He casts his eyes over both of you for a minute, as if he was building his opinion before Miss Venable had even spoken. You instantly don’t trust him, he looks, _entitled_ somehow. An air of arrogance clouded him, like he knew more than either you or Miss Venable did, and he wasn’t afraid to hold it over you. 

You present yourself professionally at Miss Venable’s side, bolstering her position.

_“I’m Wilhemina Venable. I’m in charge here.”_

_“Of course you are.”_

_“You don't sound like you believe me.”_

_“Why wouldn’t I? You've done a wonderful job; the walls are still standing people are still alive and healthy which is quite a feat considering.”_

_“Considering?”_

_“That three more Outposts have been overrun and the remaining three wont last through the year.” “Why are you here?”_

_“Because its only matter of time before the same thing happens to you. The good news it the is another facility, a sanctuary, this one is completely impregnable and stocked with enough supplies to last a decade.”_

_“You're here to take us there.”_

_“I’ve been assigned to evaluate the people here and select the ones most worthy of survival, I could take all of you or I could take none of you. Those that make it get to live. Those that don’t, end up like my horses.”_


	5. Chapter 5

Miss Venable walks slowly alongside Michael Langdon toward the doors of her Office, flicking her head to him as she talks, appearing as official as you had ever seen her. “I already have everyone assembled in the Music Room. Perhaps an announcement of the situation, would be pertinent?” It gave her a different aura somehow, put her in perspective now there was another player on the table, a figure of vague but higher rank than herself, popping the strange twilight-lit bubble you had all been inhabiting.

Michael huffs an amused smile. “Aren’t we lucky to have someone as _prepared_ and well-organised such as yourself.” He pauses in the slowly opening doorway, two Greys dragging the sides slowly open at her signal. His eyes drift briefly onto you, and you drop your gaze respectfully. Something about him unsettles you. As if with one glance he could look right into your soul and read all your secrets.

Her fingers play the silver head of her cane in her palm, wanting to show she is on top of this new revelation with adaptable, professional acceptance. “I’ll have any stragglers rounded up. Some are likely in the middle of their work duties,” Miss Venable explains, walking alongside Michael as his presumed equal. You however stay at least a step behind her, acting merely as escort and concierge and showing yourself respectful of her position.

It makes her seem more of a leader, somehow, by having an entourage. You’re humorously reminded of the years you spent as an Intern, following some big-shot Attending Physician around mostly to make them look important than do any real work. Impress your seniors, pass your exams, and you would go forward through your training program.

“Ms Mead.” Miss Venable clacks her cane calling the stout woman’s attention, who was waiting nearby talking with two members of her team.

She closes her conversation and marches over, presenting herself to them both. “Miss Venable?”

Michael forms a strange smile on his lips toward Ms Mead, as Miss Venable gives her orders. “Find any Greys and Guards in non-essential positions and have them congregate on the upstairs balcony in the Music Room. There’s to be an emergency meeting, and _everyone_ is required to attend.” Her cane raps gently out of habit, and to ease her inner disquiet at having someone from The Co-operative, turn up on her doorstep.

He could spell salvation, or the end, of them all. Wilhemina knew this _end,_ could come to her too if she were not careful when it came to Michael Langdon. His words had been all too clear, _I could take all of you, or I could take none of you_. Although Miss Venable would like to think herself above such decisions and that her place in the Sanctuary was without question, this obtuse young man held both possibilities in his hands.

Her fate was suddenly something she could not control. Miss Venable glances to you, saying everything she could through just her eyes. You’re grateful for the long months you spent observing her before the situation presented itself for you to just, _talk to her._ You had been fascinated for the longest time, and your position was now the highest honour you could ever garner.

“Right away Miss Venable.” Ms Mead pulls her attention back, almost urgently wanting her to remain on business, to stop looking at you giving you such, trust and privilege. Miss Venable nods her head gladly to Ms Mead, her loyalty always without question.

Mr Langdon and Miss Venable continue their slow meandering tour of the Outpost, Miss Venable steering him away from where you knew everyone was sitting - confident that he wouldn't know which room was which in this art-deco maze of a bunker. He gracefully strokes his long nut-brown hair from his face with a swoosh of his hand before tucking them behind his back. “I’m to present news pertaining to the fate of all in this Outpost, and yet you send half your guests out of sight.”

Miss Venable smirks in dark amusement. “We can’t have them _mixing_ , as though they are _equal._ ” She chuckles, his question blatantly absurd. The Co-operative allowed her to make her own rules, and he was in _her house_ now, he had to respect that even if he would have run things differently given the choice. Her method had worked, _is_ _working,_ he’d said so himself - the walls were still standing, her Guests are alive and healthy, because of her.

Michael hummed, and not for the first time you feel him looking at you. “Though on this occasion they are. I will be interviewing each and every one of the inhabitants here. Regardless of any assigned class or privilege.” He stops, turning his shoulders to you and it takes Miss Venable a step or so to realise he isn't alongside her. Leaning on her cane she steps a small circle to turn, frowning in concern. His interest is studiously fixed on you, and you cant deny the fear that creeps up your spine. “What position are you?” Langdon murmurs with a soft fascination.

Your eyes twitch to Miss Venable, unsure what to do, or say. She’d warned you with clear consequences not to open your mouth, her grip could have branded you she held you by the neck so tightly. So you keep quiet, despite the way his gaze bores into you, somehow opening doors and turning keys in your mind revealing your thoughts and memories, bringing them now freely flowing in your open thoughts with so potency they make your cheeks burn and your back ache from her cane. “She’s my assistant,” Miss Venable intervenes curtly.

“You’re a doctor,” Langdon deduces with a level of certainty you can’t understand. How could anyone possibly have guessed that? It’s not as though The Co-operative would have any centrally located paperwork on you, the only thing you filled in was by hand and currently sits in Miss Venable’s desk drawer.

Her eyes flit between Langdon and you, an almost anxious edge to the movement, needing to decide how to manage the situation while given no time to think up a strategy. “Yes,” Miss Venable quickly takes a step closer to you, and you equally find yourself easing toward her, craving the supposed safety she provides. Though you’re unsure if aligning yourself with her is worth what it once was, now that Michael Langdon was here outranking her. “We have been, lucky enough to benefit from her skills.”

He doesn’t shift his gaze from you, ignoring Miss Venables interjection. “Do you speak?” His head tilts, reaching his hand slowly toward your face as if to examine something strange he's never seen. “Or does Miss Venable always answer for you?”

You jerk your head to the side away from his oncoming curiosity, clearing your throat to make your discomfort clear. You feel a hidden nudge from Miss Venable against your back, urging you to answer and put him off any further probing. “It wouldn't be my place, Mr Langdon. I’m not in charge. All of this is, above my paygrade,” You finally speak up, remaining as natural yet polite as you can. “Sir.” 

His extended hand stills as you jerk from it, and lets it fall away, a twinge of disappointment to his soft features. “So you’re only here to serve _Miss Venable_.” He folds his arm at his waist, the hand he wanted to weirdly touch you with now rubbing softly into his palm, like he had acquired your very essence on his fingertips, and could use this somehow. “Interesting.”

Your head snaps to Miss Venable, as equally as perturbed by this man’s supposed discovery, as you were fearful of what Miss Venable might do if she blamed you for saying the wrong thing. But instead she snaps her fingers at you, and you hurry once more to her side, coming behind her as she clacks her cane firmly on the floor, ordering any Greys in the vicinity to _get moving_ , as well as calling one of Meads Guards over. “Please show Mr Langdon to the guest suite, so he may freshen up from his journey.” She gives Langdon a withering look, and takes her leave. “If you’ll excuse us.”

Langdon does a half-bow, acknowledging that he would let you both go, _for now,_ having most definitely won this round. Venable turns without bothering to wait for a reply from him, checking you’re with her as she walks away through one of the beige stone archways, more grit and wincing discomfort to her movements than you’ve seen since before the meds withdrawal.

You hurry alongside, checking back to make sure he’s far out of sight and earshot before you speak. “How did he know I was a doctor?” You whisper nervously, breaking all the rules by taking her arm and pulling her to a halt in the corridor before you turn into the Music Room. “Are you alright? Miss Venable, I know I’m not meant to ask this, but you look like you're in pain and -“

She tears her arm from you appealed by your forwardness. “Quiet. Thats the least of our problems,” Miss Venable rights her posture, looking as ruffled as you at Langdon’s revelations. “We can’t trust Michael Langdon to take the right people to the Sanctuary. He doesn’t know these people.” She chews the words out quietly. She wouldn't want to do this to you so bluntly, but him being here has forced her hand. You were unlikely to be of real help when the time came, she would have to rely on Mead for that. But you had earned your place in her books to survive with her, so you needed at least to _know the plan._

Your eyes dart down the hall, what she's saying feeling, _rebellious._ “Who are the _right people_?”

You’re shocked by her bold reaction, taking her dominant hand from her cane switching it over, to firmly cup your cheek in her palm. “Us.” She rubs her half-gloved thumb over the soft pillow of your cheek. “We’re the only ones who matter.”

For a moment you’re lost to this tender gesture, the magnetic pull of her eyes in which she’s claiming you. That even though you’re not the one, _you're good enough_ , and that she’ll ensure your survival. You nod, wanting so badly to lose yourself entirely to her, to the shades of light and dark, both the warm touches and chilly notes she swings back and for between, it almost hurts that you can’t give in to it, not completely. To have your whole self belonging to her and in her control as she would likely demand, _were you that one person she longed for._ “And the others?” You say softly.

Her touch is gone, and you know you shouldn't have said it, but you just couldn't help it. You’ve endeared yourself to her - even accidentally so to start with, and now you shared something with her they never could. Was that a reason to leave them behind. “I’ve been their caretaker for 18 months. There will be no more handholding.”

——-

The Purples were all congregated in the Music Room since breakfast, the Perimeter Alert had kept them huddled together like sheep awaiting their fate at the hands of marauding cannibals, or the pus-swollen radioactive creatures from above. It was like a bedtime story to scare children; the boogeyman would get you, the monster under your bed. Except these monsters were real, and wanted to plunder what health and vitality you had left, spit roast you over the fire in the central hallway, or so Venable and the Guards would have you all believe.

For no-one had really seen the outside since the day the bombs fell. Even Timothy and Emily’s arrival had been a mere 2 weeks in; now 18 months down the line who knows what state the world was in, or wasn’t. This thought pre-occupied Timothy’s mind, for he didn't just have to take care of himself now, but his girlfriend too. If there was no more lunches, no more breakfasts, how long could they really all survive? How long until they were too weak to even make a break for it? His little finger nudged the side of Emily’s dress, letting her now he was thinking about her, even if he couldn't show it how he wanted.

Dinah and Andre, Mr Gallant and his grandmother, even Coco had said precious few words until now. The panic had kept them all quiet, ears straining for sounds of doors breaking down, shouts, screams, fights.

But nothing came, and Coco was brimming to say something. _Anything._ “I’m telling you there’s something fishy going on,” She flapped the sides of her dress over her calfs as she plopped into a chair, not feeling any better for pacing the room. “Skipping dinner and now this? Going off with Venable like she's too good to _wait around to die_ with the rest of us?” Her finger wagged at Mallory, the only Grey to stay with the group. There were some Guards by the door of course, but they were too far away and too stupid to listen in.

“It can’t be a coincidence,” Gallant wipes his purple glasses on the side of his deep purple blazer, so used to the colour now that he’d forgotten the rest of the spectrum.

Mallory was perched on the arm of the sofa, a towel thrown over her shoulder forgotten in the commotion it still hung there. “That’s right. Remember she had that bust lip a few weeks ago? Those bruises on her neck?”

Gallant scoffed a disbelieving face. “She said she walked into a door.”

“Doors don’t strangle people,” Mallory parroted in her usual deadpan voice.

Coco retched and flapped her hands in disgust. “Eew, God stop talking, both of you. I don’t want to think about Miss Venable having sex.” The very thought was like having pins put through her eyes.

Timothy raised his eyebrows. “You really think thats whats happening? Its more likely Venable’s using her position to, I don't know, abuse her or something. I mean she's always been quiet, she’d be the perfect target. Not that I’ve noticed any bruises, so I’m not saying I believe anything.” He held his hands up refusing to get further involved, before rubbing them nervously down his fancy trousers. This whole conversation was problematic and troublesome. He dared to think, what if Coco was right? What if Venable _was_ inviting you into her bed? If so, it means he and Emily could have been, _closer_ , this whole time. He didn't want to believe that all these months had been _wasted_ , not being with the girl he was coming to love.

“Even if they wanted to have sex. Its forbidden, remember? _No copulation of any kind._ Venable would hardly break The Co-operatives rules when its her job to maintain them,” Emily glanced anxiously at her boyfriend, thinking the same things.

Evie flicked open her patterned fan seemingly it in her stride. “I say good on her. At least one of us is getting some.”

Dinah was eager not to let the conversation get out of hand, and suffer any consequences herself for something she had not condoned or been a part of. “I think we’re all getting a little delusional from the lack of good food and restful sleep,” She waved her hands to calm everyones baseless gossiping. “Miss Venable is a tough woman, but she's here to keep us alive. Not smack people around.” She finished just in time, for the clack of Miss Venable’s cane came in deep echoes down the hall, and the group quickly hushed.

You’re all too aware that their conversation died down as you enter, though you know from personal experience it could simply be the effect Miss Venable has on the group; sitting and socialising was not something Venable was competent at. But now the furtive glances are sent in your direction, and you feel for the first time what its been like for her. There were some murmurs hidden behind hands, and you’re more than happy to leave her side when she takes to her usual chair, Andre hopping quickly out of it before he gets scolded.

In the meantime, you gladly take the small space squashed between Timothy and the arm of the sofa, returning his polite smile, thankful he asks you nothing of where you’ve been. But as you get settled in the group and turn your attention to the front of the room, and Miss Venable in her seat from afar, reminded how many evenings you had sat this exact proximity from her, yet unable to even speak to her. But this time, her eyes are on you. Her cane raps the floor firmly, and she gestures to the space beside her. Your eyes widen, and glance to the side. Her eyebrows raise at you. Your heartbeat jumps. “Now,” Her voice comes at you, menacing and giving you no choice but to obey. _Its what she wants_.

“I told you so,” Coco whispers to Mallory, watching the scene unfold with a reckless thrill.

You shuffle forward again to stand, and taking a deep breath, walk across to where Miss Venable is sitting, taking your place where she gestures beside her. Her arm bends at the elbow, fingers reaching up to tap her shoulder, before turning her stern gaze up to you. _Do it._ You nod, quietly placing your hand to her shoulder, making her statement undeniable. You reassuringly squeeze your fingers into her, wanting her to believe, _to know_ that you were with her, against Michael Langdon - and now it seemed, _against them all._ She idly strokes her fingers over yours with a regal, proud sort of smile.

“Something to say, Miss Vanderbilt?” Miss Venable leans her head to one side, quirking her eyebrow challengingly at Coco.

The blonde shakes her head. “Nope. Not a thing.”

Wilhemina huffs. “Good.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im sorry this took me a week and not my usual quicker pace, I found it awfully hard to write and weave in the fic themes, and the reader to pre-existing canon scenes, while making it feel new and real for this universe. As like the last chapter, there is the odd few lines of script from the show, that do not belong to me, you'll know when you see them.

With tense side-glances and rearranged seating, the few remaining Purples congregated on the leather sofas, while two Grey’s flanked the entrance archway, the rest surrounding the room on the upper Balcony. It had taken a half hour to organise the entire population of the Outpost into one place, but for once Miss Venable didn't mind the waiting. In deciding to out your connection with her, she felt maintaining this public presence, this fortified position to be crucial in the coming days against Michael Langdon.

Standing in the centre of the fireplace, she gazed with a quiet pride at her remaining flock and the good work she had managed here. Though she cared little for their ultimate survival, it didn't diminish her success, and Wilhemina had proven to herself if nobody else that she was and is, _right._ People do crave structure, and rules. Whether a person is assigned one category or another was arbitrary; once accustomed to that role they simply _become_ it, take orders, abide by her word. Elegance and order returns with all the correct customs and polite manners that people should display.

Slow uninhibited footsteps are heard coming down the hallway, heavier that Venable’s while losing none of their impact, everyone’s eyes flitting anxiously and excitedly to the figure entering the room. Your second impressions were much like your first, although the dark black suit with black silk ruffles down the front of his shirt were a somewhat consoling combination; that his attire was as classical and victorian as all of yours. Perhaps it was a Co-operative wide insistence after all, and not of Venables own making as assumed.

Michael Langdons look was all about impression, and not substance, designed to cause whispers.

You had met his sort before, pompous, arrogant and all front. Whatever he chose to say or show the world was only through careful calculation, nothing what he was doing was by chance.

He could have simply stood beside Miss Venable, or a half-step in front.

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise, watching from your place at the side of the room, shoulder to shoulder with Ms Mead - _publicly_ now seen as Miss Venable’s inner circle, as he walks directly up to her, his height giving him a physical dominance she could not better.

It was a cheap trick played only because he was a man, and she, a woman, naturally shorter and to his mind - more feeble. Her cane only added to the aesthetic, his supposed superiority unquestionable. But instead he stares Miss Venable down, the lift of her eyebrows showing her indignation.

Miss Venable falters, holding her ground for a purposeful extra beat, before conceding to the intensity of his eyes. She glances over to us, Mead and I, and painfully makes her way to stand with us. Our regent and protector, _usurped_. She's wounded, you know, but not in any physical way - its her strong hold over the Outpost, her reputation, her control that will suffer and in turn cause untold psychological damage to her hidden fragility.

“My name is Langdon and I represent The Co-operative.” He began, bringing his fingers together in a small arch at his waist.

—————-

Miss Venable waits in her Office, seemingly alone in the space that had been co-opted by Langdon to conduct his interviews. The future lives of _all_ the Outpost inhabitants apparently to be decided by some summary questioning process he had developed. She wants to scoff at his audacity, toss him outside the gates and watch the rancid air fill his lungs as he coughs and splutters his way to a certain inevitable death.

But his timing had been, _fortuitous._ She had expected word from The Co-operative to come, but the man delivering it was altogether a different turn of events than she had planned for. Really if anyone were to choose the special few to go to the Sanctuary, it should be her, not this boy representative of the Co-operative. Coming in here like he held any authority, like she couldn't order his assassination at the snap of her fingers if she wished to. Outpost 3 was not up for taking, or for the open plundering of souls she alone had governance over. Miss Venable knows she needs to make this clear to Michael Langdon. His name twisted in her mind like the stem of a rose, each syllable pricking her subconscious with its thorns.

No-one was meant to come here, _interfere,_ disapprove of her effective, albeit draconian methods. But perhaps, Langdon will do some of the hard work for her, dispatching the unworthy with his little white pills, so long as his ideas lined up with hers. All she had to do was wait and see, and deal with any stragglers personally. He would likely give them a gentler ending than Venable had planned, Mead already dispatched to collect the snake venom. His _cleaner_ method is a kindness, they were undeserving of.

Wilhemina notices a flaw out the corner of her eye. The cushion on one of her deep square armchairs wasn’t sitting straight. She walks slowly to it, the layers of dress down her hips and long legs were tiered in black tassels, shimmying to the beat of her steps. Leaning to correct the imperfection, she stretches her arm from under the faint, black lace shawl decoration that coated her shoulders, filing away the misdemeanour for later when she could discover which errant Grey had been responsible for cleaning the Office this morning and leaving it, unfinished.

“You have a gift for making the ugly look presentable,” The smooth voice for Michael Langdon says, startling Miss Venable. She straightens, composing her dark features before turning to address the intruder, clutching her cane in both hands.

“Order on the outside does wonders to keep the chaos safely on the inside,” She snipped, focusing on the smooth elegance of her strides, keen to show at least in here that this Outpost _was and always will be,_ belonging to her.

Venable pretends to listen to the conversation that he then launches into as he advances over to her, his platitudes about her leadership fatuous, as if he hadn’t already chipped away at it in front of them all. She cares not for his stories of radiation sickness and mercy killings, they served only to inflate his own sense of self, that he could’ve played God if he so wished. But on he talks.

At least his egoistic self-talk gave Wilhemina the chance to assess this man at closer quarters however; with his answers given to her alone she could deduce certain things about him. How he shows no qualms about continuing the on-going suffering of the survivors left on the surface, leaving that woman and two children to fester in the toxic air.

Would he be so quick to leave her here too? Continue the slow decay of starvation until there was little left of her but her bones, her cane clutched tight across her chest, clinging onto it even in her last breath.

This was not a man who could be swayed, Miss Venable decided. He could not be brought on side or persuaded. Miss Venable squeezed the head of her cane tensely, listening to his continuous self-indulgent _noise._

Wilhemina didn't have time for it.

Langdon's long hair bounces around his shoulders as he strides to Venable’s desk, lifting the first file from the tower of equal white portfolios to read the name. “So who deserves a shot at salvation? Let's start with Coco Saint Pierre Vanderbilt.” He declares with a slap of the file on the desk. He had already raided her personnel files since his arrival and thus at some point, he would have read _yours._ Wilhemina wasn’t sure if she was glad you hadn’t been selected to interview yet, or if after this she would have to coach your answers. For his manner is slick and his questioning patter well practised. It would be easy to fall into his little verbal traps and give away more than you should.

Miss Venable’s head ticked in irritation as he slunk into the tall-backed chair. Going through the motions with Langdon felt so unproductive when she had already made _her_ selections, for survival at least, if not the Sanctuary. A few more may be allowed to live simply to be used as canon fodder en route, now there was a better option at hand than waiting out the winter here. And knowing now that he would be of little help to her plans, she could set the wheel in motion. “The Vanderbilt girl is a vacuous abomination of inbreeding. She'd be my last choice to propagate the human race. The hairdresser is a cowardly homosexual. His grandmother is a festering pustule who just _will not die,”_ Miss Venable raves frustratedly. “And the talk show host well, actually, I don't know that much about that one,” She finishes rather disinterestedly. Her cane rapped lightly on the floor as she thought.

Langdon stretches his arms wide on the desk with a sigh. “At this rate, it sounds like you and I will have The Sanctuary all to ourselves.” He presses to his feet and wanders back to her, plying his words with a false warmth that a lesser personality would take as genuine. “Come. There's no need for us to be adversaries, Ms. Venable.” The closer he came the more Wilhemina felt her breath hitch; the way he moves and dances around her Office so freely flouting her calm and decorum was insulting. Indulging his every passing thought, every deep gaze of her body he so wished to give with such obvious arrogance, it was clear to Miss Venable he didn't see her who she was. Not a leader, a woman, a person with thoughts and feelings but simply something to toy with.

He was boy with an ant and a magnifying glass, who had simply grown up onto greater prey.

Her heart rate quickens as he takes a deep breath, too close in her personal space that she would ever willingly accept, but in saying so, or stepping back, she would give him pause to think her weak. And after the incident in the Music Room she was desperate not to give even an inch to this _boy._ “Take off your dress,” Langdon demands suddenly, altering the already tense atmosphere to one far more dangerous. Fear spikes brightly in the back of Wilhemina’s mind, her eyes flickering to the side and back to him with abasement.

“I will not,” She replies with shaky confidence. Something hits her starkly, the way he seems so easily able to abuse his position, his _gender,_ to draw a helplessness from her Wilhemina hasn’t felt since - she blinks at the memory, and an incredulous, nervous laugh escapes her lips. Since _those men_ on the side street, targeting her supposed weakness for walking with a cane, for purely being female, like they could do what they wanted with her the same way Michael Langdon attempted now.

“Part of your _cooperation_ includes a physical examination,” He continues, wilfully ignorant of her unease.

“You can read my file,” Miss Venable states defiantly, the polite smile she had to this point maintained, shrinking with each second.

Langdon starts to circle her slowly, and instead of following where he was going Wilhemina looks ahead, resistant to being put in that position again. “She did it. _Obeyed,”_ He murmurs, leaning to soften the delivery of his words into the shell of her ear as her eyes widen, her head whipping around to stare at him. “She told me _all_ about you.”

“Who?” Miss Venable frowns in worry. You hadn’t been interviewed yet; had you betrayed her somehow? Colluded with him?

His hand grazes across the ball of her shoulder towards her shoulder blade, touching her, without asking, without _consent._ “Besides, your file won't show me what I need to see,” He persists, as Venable snaps her hand over her shoulder, digging her fingers and nails with white knuckled intensity into his skin stopping his roaming touch dead in its tracks. “ _Your shame.”_ He purrs, continuing to walk to her other side though his hand is pinned in place. “I want to see that part of you that humiliates you the most. You won't get a second chance.”

 _Fuck him -_ she growled internally. There was no way, _no way_ on this forsaken poisoned earth she was going to let him do that. It would be the ultimate humiliation and betrayal of who she was, allowing him to see the years of pain she had lived through as her spine grew askew, the futility ofknowing there was not a damn thing she could do about it, and the rejection, of herself and her body that came with it. It was a personal hatred she carried, one only cemented through her life the same way her back seemed to lose what little flexibility it has as the years grind on, as though the very vertebrae were cementing themselves together to hobble her even more so.

Did failing his test of Co-operation even matter if she has plans of her own? Though without him, she didn't know the location of the Sanctuary or how to get there safely, and the prospect of going outside unprepared was so daunting Wilhemina knew she would rather side slowly in here than painfully out there.

His fingers tickled lightly on her collarbone, his touch making her soul shiver. “Don’t you want to be reunited?” Langdon tilts his head just so, looking into her eyes from side-on, coaxing her gaze to greet his. He welcomed the shadows that crept across her vision, the darkness being shocked withblinding white light, a life being brought back before her eyes that simply _could not be._

“What are you talking about?” Miss Venable demanded with intensity, or so she thought, for when she heard her voice it was little more than breath, the temptation to attribute a meaning to his words keenly felt. But thats all it was, _temptation._ Had her tapped into her past somehow, the way he had with yours? Pulling out facts of your career from thin air as though he held some celestial knowledge of you all, of unspoken things never shared never uttered out loud?

Langdon brought his face right against hers, his nose almost nuzzling his ear as he uttered the words Wilhemina never believed she would hear. “ _She’s alive._ ”

Wilhemina felt her stomach drop. Her head turns to Langdon as her eyes widen in a horror that cannot be described. She shook her head with the tiniest of quivers. She’d not felt such longing for something to _not be happening_ since the day of the evacuation, since she was strapped into a fold-down chair by a man doing his best to just _do his job_ not caring for the ramifications of what he was doing. Separating Wilhemina from her girlfriend because he couldn’t just wait one more moment for the girl to grab the bag, come to her side, _come back to her._ “I don’t believe you,” She stuttered as she gasped a breath into her dry lungs.

Langdon hummed as he stood back, a sinister smile on his boyish features. “Believe me or don't but the possibility in itself is a tantalising thought, is it not?” He lets his hand fall from her shoulders, his demand more playful now, for he still wanted it, and _would have it_ from her, but she was being much more fun to torment than he had expected. Miss Venable presented a front that was so together, so bound tight he had thought more teasing of the ropes would be required before really wounding an animal so proud. But it had been _easy._ “For your heart may be turned to stone now, but it wasn’t always this way. Love can bring anyone to their knees Miss Venable.” The strange red eye-make up he wore blazed excitedly as he ripped through her mind, able to slot together the missing pieces of a puzzle he had already started upon previous interviewing, other Outposts having already made their journey to the Sanctuary. “Although, you’re not usually the one on the floor.”

He chuckled with a heady ascendency as Miss Venable stumbled back from him, shaking her head vehemently. “Stop this.”

Langdon doesn’t let her put space between them, keeping pace with her backward step cruelly catching his foot under her cane delighting in the momentary panic that flashes in Venable’s eyes as she loses balance, his ability to overpower and dominate her as easy as a purposefully misplaced foot. He grins darkly as he ducks under her misbalance and catches her, Wilheminas body shaking in his arms clamped both sides of her waist as he lays his chin over her shoulder rubbing his check over her shoulder like some twisted pseudo affection one would take from their mother. Wilhemina is barely realising the ramifications of her split second slip or how it happened when he spoke.“She’s waiting for you.” He creeps his hand to the back of her dress, pinching the zipper between his fingers.

“ _Lies,_ ” She hisses viciously, reaching her hand up to blindly grab for his wrist.

Her fighting only makes him chuckle. “Do you really want to take that chance?”

Did she? Did she trust his words enough to sacrifice her dignity at even the outside possibility that it could be true? But how? They had barely arrived at the Outpost in time before the bombs went off, how could she have travelled to another location or - or found shelter somewhere to survive? It was _impossible_. It wasn’t as if Wilhemina hadn’t spent months of sleepless nights running every contingency idea to give herself a faint flicker of hope that the girl could, somehow, be alive. _That they could be reunited._ But the months had drawn long and no-one ever came, no word of other Outposts after the first few weeks were but memory. Until actual starvation had recently become a possibility, Wilhemina had suppressed such painful memories with an iron will. Was it coincidence that he appeared now, days after she had been hit with a storm of grief, the only glimmer of weakness she had shown to the Guests or _you_ , in that time? His timing in coming here and manipulating her now was too perfect. _He was lying._

It was the cruellest lie anyone could tell her. It made it the abject humiliation complete that a man half her age was now here saying it, using it to hang her very existence over her head, make her buckle to his masochistic misogynistic will. She would kill him, Wilhemina concluded in that very moment. _Michael Langdon will die for this._

Wilhemina pressed her eyes shut, refusing to let herself see the girl’s spectre before her, willed into life again by his words. She couldn’t help but worry her bottom lip between her teeth. But what if …?

Her tight grip slowly loosens from his wrist, and she drops her arm to her side, submitting. Langdon smiles sinisterly, his victory pure and unrivalled as he pulls the zipper down the back of he dress not just enough, but all the way to her tail bone, exposing her. Wilhemina suppressed a shiver, the corner of her eyes twitching with salty tears that shimmered wetly through her obstinate blinks, willing them away. “Does it hurt?” Langdon murmured with macabre fascination, stroking his fingers around the swell of her back, around the bend and right to the bottom. 

“No.” She growled in mulish stubbornness, refusing to let him take advantage of her any further than he had already forced.

“But does it bring you great pain?”

The wording somehow hits her differently, the knot in her gut predicting her downfall as she answers. “Yes.” He’d found her weakness, abused it, _abused her_ because he could. To love is to be weak, she curses silently, even in death. But she's not? Is she? Venable knows she’s played along, given in, been the broken woman he wants to see, because she has to, because… _she loves her._ “Can I see her?” Wilhemina pleads softly as her tears break and roll unforgivably down her cheeks.

Langdon beams elatedly, his assault of her authority, _her co-operation,_ complete. “No.”

Just as his words find space in the air, Wilhemina’s rage is instantly lit, like dry kindling and a single match - and theres a knock at the door. Venable jolts, shaken by the intrusion as the doors instantly slide open wide enough for a person to present themselves. “Yes?” He lilts his head and smiles politely at Ms Mead as though he didn’t care at all for what was seen.

Ms Mead takes one look at Venable, at how Langdon’s hand is still comfortably in the small of her bare back like he owns her and her body, able to touch and play with her submission at his will even in front of others. The protective loyalty in Mead flares. She looks ready to throttle Langdon herself. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I need Ms. Venable,” Mead parrots officially, shifting her position with barely contained agitation.

Wilhemina feels the sudden nakedness of her back, her vulnerability showing to the real world beyond this strange twilighted bubble he had trapped her in, and its jarring. Langdon’s abuse was now evident to her, and worse, how she had _let_ him. She sniffs and swipes her fingers across her cheeks smearing the tears away before they stain her make up. “Good evening, Mr. Langdon,” Miss Venable gathers herself and replies with trained politeness, her ache for civility and decorum the only thing she has to hold onto as she walks painfully from the room. 

“Sir,” Mead manages to growl, bringing the sliding doors together again, trapping him safely inside.

As Mead zips up her dress, starting to ramble about Mr Gallant and some unimportant sexual escapade, Wilhemina glances back at the closed doors of her Office, and somehow knows that Langdon is looking right back at her, too. But for all his victories he’d won, breaking her down, humiliating her in the worst way possible, he had also given her the greatest gift without barely realising it.

Information, and a reason to _live._

Her girlfriend is alive.


	7. Chapter 7

Miss Venable takes a deep resilient breath as she coaxes her body to return to its baseline, the natural tilt of her shoulders and slight limp to her walk as much hers to own as her actions that burned before her now. Wilhemina had for the first time a new, singular focus. To find out what truth there was to Michael Langdon’s baiting words. If her girlfriend _really is_ alive.

Interrogating him was plainly out of the question, he would never answer her straight anyway. He knew too much; he had played his cards already by telling what he had supposedly gleaned from interviews with her. Or was that was just all smoke and mirrors? Venable didn't know for certain. She held onto her belief that if the girl _is_ alive, there is certainly nothing he could say that would convince her to talk of their relationship and the private, shared, things they did together. Her loyalty and love was absolute, unquestioning and unyielding. He could lie all he wanted to her and the girl would not fold.

No, a more calculated approach was needed. It didn’t matter how he knew what he _thought,_ he knew. Venables instinct and direction was clear. For she had given Langdon _everything_ in that interview, every darkest corner of her pain and he _hadn’t_ passed her. So what use was there now in pretending his presence here served a purpose now? It did not. Simply do away with Langdon, travel to the Sanctuary themselves, and find her.

 _Find her._ Wilhemina stills a moment, the very idea of having the girl in her arms again causing such a surge of emotion she buckled at the waist, falling against the wall as the desperation to this wild notion hits her. She sniffed a breath, touching her hand lightly to her earring as though this was a usual, habitual behaviour that was making her pause, stealing a glance over her shoulder and forward, ensuring no-one was there witnessing her faltering step.

Miss Venable’s expression slowly hardened with determined intensity, her plan needing to be set into motion. Time was of the essence now; her failure to pass his Co-operation gave her 2-3 days to do away with the more unworthy Outpost inhabitants, take possession of his belongings and return to the Sanctuary as his reputed chosen few, explain his absence once they were safely inside the doors.

Ms Mead would take care of Gallant, she already had him hung from the ceiling in the sub-basement level, so she was told. As for the others, they would swallow their own poison in the cubes. All but you, Mead and Langdon.

She wanted to do _that_ one herself.

Miss Venable finds you waiting outside the door to her rooms, biting your nails. “Miss Venable!” You press off the wall and hurry a step over to her, dropping your folded arms to your sides and ducking your gaze. “What did Langdon say? When does he give you the results? Are you going to - “

“Stop your questions,” Venable dismisses, striding into the room indicating you to close the door as usual. She seems far away somehow, you notice as you click the door into its frame, turning the key that was resting in the lock. The insistence of her instructions sharp but not demanding. She was distracted from the here and now, like an athlete before a race who paces the warm-up room, their body present but their mind on the track. “Wheres that bag - your medical bag? Bring it to me.” Her cane clacks on the floor demonstrably.

You scrutinise the tension in her body with concern. “Why?” Its a risky move asking Miss Venable such a thing so boldly, whatever state of mind she's in. But you’re not just her companion, you’re a doctor too. _What a wonderfully altruistic profession to choose,_ he’d sarcastically said, making your choices seem masochistic, bad for you even if it benefitted others.

Her recent grief compounded with Michael Langdon being here, up-ending everything in Venable’s coolly controlled universe could make even the strongest of people wobble a little, and the seeming automatic fallback was her craving that calming high that the drugs could give. But you’re not prepared to let her undo all the work you’ve managed her through. This _need_ was emotional, not physical, and would only create a dependency you were now unequipped to draw her back from. The drugs were all gone but one vial, there was nothing to be achieved in this. “I understand it probably feels a little unsettling him being here, but don’t ruin everything we’ve done by using again now.”

Flames lick angrily in Miss Venable’s eyes, grimacing at the forced athleticism as she strides quickly to you in response, grabbing your throat in her hand and knocking you back against the wall. The shock alone stuns you, never mind how your head clunked against the wall and throbbed bloodily to the beat of your quickening pulse. She abandons her cane to throw all her weight into both hands, squeezing them around your neck. You gasp for breath as the emptiness of your lungs starts to burn, whacking her hip with your hand trying to signal she's going to far, whatever is making her do this its wrong and its dangerously close to being final. You don't want to shove her, knock her back or kick out, _this is Miss Venable_. She’s not a random assailant or attacker, nothing she did was without purpose. But why now? What had you done? This was disproportionate even for her.

Venable doesn’t blink, doesn’t falter, throwing all her shame and hate and humiliation she’s just suffered at Langdons hand, all the fear of making that trip, of it all being lies and _her not being alive,_ that aching pain she's carried around with her 18 months that brokenness inside of her that cant be fixed - all of it, she throws at you through her arms, her hands, her teeth baring as she wills you to suffer for it all of it because _you’re here she's not and it shouldn't be this way,_ and you’ve disobeyed her for the last time.

But she needs you.

Just as you’re about to snap and use what remaining focus you have to knock her on her ass, only to save your own life, her concentration breaks and her hands slip away, falling forwards and stumbling against you from the leftover momentum, catching herself on the wall with her hands, gasping hard. _What are you doing Mina?_ She scolds herself. 

You tumble to the floor crashing into a heap of wild heaving breaths, coughing and wheezing your way to clearer vision, feeling the oxygen rushing through your bloodstream and reawakening your muscles and body. You crane your neck up to look at her stupefied and disoriented. “What - “ You start to croak, then cough once more. Miss Venable turns slowly leaning her back and body against the wall, tipping her chin up, staring at the ceiling as she caught her breath. Pressing her eyes shut and sucking her bottom lip in, she berates herself for the misguided anger. She didn't want to look at you or answer your barely half-spoken question; it wasn’t outright guilt but perhaps, regret at potentially severing the only real help she has. Wilhemina finally opens her eyes and rests them down you, more gently. Acceptingly. She would need you to get to the Sanctuary. Even if you’re not _her,_ you’re here. 

It was all, _too much._ This, the Outpost, Langdon. Wilhemina had to get out of here, she had to do this now. She couldn’t live with the _not knowing,_ any longer. She rubs her fingers tensely along her forehead, and takes a breath as she runs her hand slowly down the wall, sliding her back down it until she was crouching, fumbling with difficulty for her cane.

You can see her struggling to stand again, pushing from bended legs and practically clawing her fingers up the wall, and you’re almost torn about helping her. _The woman just tried to kill you._

But you can’t help it. You help people. You pull the double shift and switch your own plans for late-night comedy re-runs so someone else can have a life. You’re just _that person_ , and you know you’re losing her, you can’t manage and help and be everything she needs anymore. Not with Langdon. Not after the other night.

So you guiltily reach for the cane for her, curl your fingers over the black wood and press it into her outstretched hand, pushing yourself to your knees before you stand and guide her up with you. Miss Venable rights her dress and plays her palm down the front of her bodice as she speaks. “Fetch the bag.”

You nod silently and obey; the woman has just strangled the life out of you and you know whats she's capable of, hell, _what you’ve agreed to in the past._ Retrieving the medical kit from behind the door you bring it to the coffee table and unzip it for her, standing back letting Miss Venable rummage around inside, her neediness tipping your concern once again. But you’re not about to make that mistake again. So you watch, wait, _stay silent stay obedient_ and tilt your head this way and that feeling the bruises swelling on the cartilage of your throat.

Wilhemina clanks open the metal tin, smiling as she finds the last remaining vial of strong opiate. She pinches it from the sponge holding between her fingers and peers at it, holding it up to the firelight. “How much of this do I need to kill a man?” Miss Venable asks quietly, her head snapping to you when your reply doesn’t trip instantaneously from your mouth. You chew the inside of your cheek. You can see the answer in your head. You know it by rote. But you don't want to say. What was she going to do with such information? Who was the injection going to be for? She purses her lips at your unhelpful refusal. “Wheres the … the needle, how do I do this?” Venable demands with unpractised hands, trying to remove the needle and syringe and fit them together clumsily. “Do this for me.”

The side of your forehead creases in worry as she shoves the things into you hands. “Do, what?” You drop your eyes to the half sheathed needle, the barely torn packets and the potentially lethal complications of what you were about to do.

 _You swear an oath to protect others, and are prepared to go to extraordinary lengths for one in particular here._ Your interview with Michael Langdon comes flooding back into your mind, his words in your ears. You start to doubt yourself and the decision not to tell Miss Venable about your Co-operation. To let everyone be judged on their own merit.

“Draw it up!” Venable clacks her cane, ever a finality to it. Even now, you flinch at the harsh sound in the other wise empty stone room, your fingers dutifully obeying.

You pop the syringe out with a practised muscle memory, securing the rounded needle end to click and slide the sheath off. “Miss Venable why do you …” You begin, staking the needle through the rubber bung of the vial. “Who is it you’re planning on injecting?”

Venable tries not to fixate on the needle in your hands and how marvellous it will feel to drive it into Langdons jugular. “That is none of your concern.” Her lips bunch disparagingly.

But it _is,_ your problem. You’re enabling her. Not simply allowing it but putting the loaded gun into her hands. “Don’t do this. Please, Miss Venable,” You whisper, emptying the vial and covering the needle safely with the cap. “I know, losing someone you love is … the worst possible type of pain but -“

Miss Venable blinks at you, incredulous. “Do you think I’m going to _kill myself?”_ She laughs in disbelief, shaking her head at you as she snatches the filled syringe from your hand. “Do you think me weak? Like they do like he does?” Venable clamours, gesticulating threateningly with the syringe, jabbing it in the air toward the door toward Langdon and his sickly smile, his ghosting permissive touch down her spine like she was a mere curios, a _freak_ to be examined and laughed at for others amusement. 

You hold your hands up calmingly, shaking your head hoping the clarity and insistence of your words rings true. For you do mean it, truly, its just, everyone has their point of no return. “No - no of course not Miss Venable. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.”

 _Given what you’ve suffered at Miss Venables hand, I do wonder what it is that would make you really, break_. You try to ignore Langdon’s now strangely prophetic words, that had almost felt like a challenge, a gauntlet laid out before you. Was this the moment?

Venable rolls the syringe in her palm, looking down at the clear liquid, then up to you with steely determination. “It’s for Langdon.”

 _What?_ You don't understand. Theres so much you don't understand. “But, he's going to take us to the Sanctuary.”

He’d given your results immediately, the relief of course unfathomable. But even in your own success you’d checked, for you can’t deny your feelings for her as mixed up as they were, there is a love there. So you’d risked it. Miss Venable too? _But of course._ He had smiled. _She's your leader, every group needs a strong right arm._

Venable growls her answer in a deep hateful tone. “No, he’s not.” You fold your arms in worry. But he’d promised. Miss Venable takes a breath and shakes her head. “You, perhaps, but not me.” She says bitterly. “And after _his lies_ he doesn’t deserve go back either. If they even _are,_ lies. Either way he doesn’t deserve the salvation the Sanctuary provides.” She delivers her judgement with a carnal spitting anger that puts her neck-wrenching outburst into perspective.

You reach one hand to your neck rubbing it anxiously, then refold your arms. “What lies…?”

She didn't need you getting involved, and didn't want to hear your self righteousness you were bound to spout. You cared about people, even when they had wronged you. Upon hearing her concern for _your_ welfare, that she would ensure the _right people_ are saved, your first thought was but what about everyone else? Your goodness was sickening, and unhelpful. “I told you to stop your questions girl.” You would only get in her way. She smacks her cane on the floor. “Get on your knees!” The darkness clouds over in her eyes, and your shoulders slump as you defeatedly obey, and bend down, kneeling at her feet.

Her fist balls around the syringe, the other agitatedly tapping the cane on the spot as she works herself up, feeling his hands all over her, those assaulting men kicking her bloodying her, his cruelty using softening thoughts of her girlfriend against her, taunting her only to pressure her submission. Wilhemina feels her eyes will with tears, red hot ones that burned with rage at how he made her feel. 

“Please, Miss Venable,” You murmur, lifting your eyes to hers as you try and plead. “Talk to me - _stop_ … hiding behind this - “

Wilhemina’s breathing is shaky and running only on adrenaline, but despite herself, she looks down at you, and how hard you’re trying. Its not easy for you; this, _her,_ but you’re still here. You’re still obeying. Her fist unfurls its tension a little, still holding the syringe but enough to reach, and stroke her fingers across your cheek. “Langdon, intimated that - that _she’s_ … alive.”

A relieving breath presses from your chest at her touch. Its tender and forgiving and _everything_ you need. “Who?” You ask, rather stupidly, before such obviousness hits you. “Oh, fuck.” You don't know why but you reach your own hand up and take hers, enfolding your hand over the syringe and just squeeze her hand supportively. She gasps a wet, emotional breath at your gesture, and you understand its okay to stand. “Was he serious? I thought she died in the blast?” You ask as you steadily get back to your feet.

“She was … left behind. It was an assumption, and an inevitability … how could she _possibly_ have …” Venable trails off, needing to understand, to entertain this possible truth that could lurk behind his lies; she just didn't know _she didn't know_ and it was going to drive her to madness.

What the hell had happened during her Co-operation? He must have said something, _done_ something to drop her this lifeline and yet fail her test. “And you think he was lying? Why would he lie? How would he even know?”

Venable rips her hand from yours, she couldn’t get lost to your conscience. She had to do this. “Because men _lie;_ they torment you and assault you because they _can._ Men blew the whole world to hell and he's simply here to finish the job,” She snarls, her withering verdict final. She closes her fingers around the syringe. “But I’m not going to let him.”

Venable turns and heads for the door, her cane placed with heavy angry smacks to the floor. Nothing will get in her way, not from killing Michael Langdon, not from finding the woman she loves. She would kill you all if she had to, no matter what sort of person that turns her into, or what darkness it unleashes, every inch of humanity she sacrificed would be worth the price simply to be with her again.

 _Don't do this._ You’re fighting against your adrenaline, for you know what her actions could spell. Death; for you, for her, for all of you. He works for the Co-operative, the same organisation she does, despite her personal tweaks to their rules. _Did you know, your precious Miss Venable has been going, off-book for some time now? Dressing you all as though you're in a time warp? Forbidding copulation? Doesn’t such deception make you hate her?_ You shook your head again. No, you believed in her. Not all people are good or evil, its a pendulum, like everything, it can swing back and for. Good people can do bad things, or _let_ them happen, just as ‘bad’ people can be gentle and kind. Miss Venable was not a bad person, she was human, like you and like everyone else. She was just, loathe to admit that. That her grief had torn her apart so badly she’d lost sight of who she was before. You hurry after her, grab her upper arm without thinking. “Stop - “ You beg, “Please.”

The hatred in her eyes then as she looks at you breaks your heart. “Take your hand off me _at once_.”

You fall back. You don't want to _ever_ see that again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry Miss Venable.”

You were saying these things and stepping in her way _out of love,_ not because you wanted to cause trouble or be difficult. But you had felt those moments of truth and gentleness when you had been alone together, when her caning was done and she was tender, when she shed this persona for just a _second_. You could glimpse the loving woman beneath all this death and grief and hurt. You love her, you know it something primal and you simply can’t let her spiral like this.

She draws tall, sniffing a tight breath in. “If we’re still alive by this evening you will not be leaving this floor do you understand me,” She says warningly, grazing her eyes down your body with a dark, possessive edge to it that tells you whether she succeeds or not, she’s going to take it out on you. Miss Venable takes a half step toward you, her movement slow and prowling and you feel your gut tighten. She leans on her cane as she lifts her chin, bunching her smooth chestnut brown lips to press a kiss on your cheek, as if sealing your fate with hers. As she eases back, your thighs clenched in soft whimpers of arousal, and she rolls her lips in and together recolouring any lipstick that may have smudged.

“Yes Miss Venable.”

“Good. Now stay out of my way.” You duck your head slightly and take a conceding step to the side, unmoving as Miss Venable twists and yanks the door handle, striding out uninhibited by you toward her goal. The door swings slowly shut by itself behind her.

You stare at the wood, a heaviness in your heart.

 _Given what you’ve suffered at Miss Venables hand, I do wonder what it is that would make you really, break_.

It plays over and over in your mind. Are you going to let her do this? Commit murder, _again,_ end a life, one who has promised all your salvation? An ending you had validated by giving her the drugs. If the world existed anymore would you be guilty too? Aiding and abetting, an accessory to murder? You rub your hands anxiously over your face, then push to your feet. “Shit,” you mutter to yourself as you grab the door and haul it open, running after her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It got a bit long, just a casual 6k. Ha.

Evie Gallant lounges in the deep square chair with one leg crossed over the other, regaling Michael Langdon at length about her credentials. What had started as a single question of _Why should you be saved? -_ had so far become an endurance test, as Langdon had sat through nearly 10 long minutes of monologuing answer with no sign of it ceasing.

Sitting opposite with his elbows angled up on the arms of the chair, he played his fingers together in a little arch. “You have to know this isn’t helping you,” He interrupts finally, flopping his hands down onto his thighs in boredom.

“But I have years of experience in the arts, theatre; how can one _possibly_ make a decision when I haven't even told you of that directors meeting I once witnessed, between a young Steven - “

“How do you know we don't already have all that on file?” Langdon rocks forward onto his feet, tugging the sides of his black dinner jacket straight. “I want to get to the nitty gritty. The _details_. Tell me about your grandson.”

On the other side of the long sliding doors, Coco pressed her ear to the wood, squinting and screwing up her face in concentration, as if this would somehow improve her hearing enough to make out their muffled words. Mallory and two other Greys were doing the same. Enlisted by Gallant who had they just been to visit downstairs, they were like kids sneaking around the forbidden ares of the school building, spying on his grandmothers interview to find out what the hell was going on.

They were concentrating so hard in their combined efforts, only Mallory had some 6th sense enough to hear the foreboding sound of Venable’s cane thundering down the hallway from the stairwell, Ms Mead at her side. Mallory straightened, her features falling to a still, fearful sort of expression as she slowly turns around, watching Miss Venable marching stiltedly toward them. “Uh, guys?” Mallory nudges the other Greys standing next to her, who then hear it too and they scatter to the sides, Miss Venable snapping her fingers at them to open the doors.

“Get out of my way - “ Miss Venable fights her way through the small gap of the doors as Mead hangs back, unable to wait a second longer not even for them be open enough to comfortably stride through. Her fist is tight around the syringe, her arm clamped to her hip, slightly hidden around her back so as to sufficiently conceal it - and her _intent_ , from Langdon.

Langdon tucks his hands behind him, tilting his head to the side, the intrigue fascinating. “Miss Venable, I would say this is a welcome surprise, but that would be a lie.”

Wilhemina holds her nerve. “Not the first you’ve told since arriving here.” Her cane clacks as she surreptitiously wanders closer toward him, each step feeling as though she's walking on a moving surface, the anticipation and adrenaline causing her to shake unsteadily. 

“Maybe not, but they certainly don’t outnumber your own.” He flicks his long hair from his face and smiles so smugly, that Miss Venable could crush the syringe to pieces if it were made of glass, she's gripping it so goddam hard. He was taunting her, as though his actions hadn’t already condemned him. “Though you couldn’t possibly know for sure if I’m lying, and therein lies your problem. Is she alive, is she not?”Langdon plays his hands up and down in the air as if they were scales shifting back and for under invisible weights, then claps them together. “If you kill me like you came here planning to do you’ll certainly never know.” His eyebrows lift, and his eyes fall to where Venable is concealing the syringe, smiling again _all knowing and all seeing._

Coco blinks and hooks her arm through Mallory’s dragging her forward into the room wanting to get closer to the drama, and she wasn’t ashamed to show it. “Well this shit just got interesting,” She smirks in a delighted fashion, as though they had front row seats to the most exciting event to happen since they’d been locked in this hell hole altogether. Mead grinds her teeth at their childishness, glad in the knowledge that they’ll all be dead soon enough.

Evie Gallant shifts around in her chair. “Sorry to interrupt all this, but I’d rather like to finish what I started here with Mr Langdon so if you all don't mind - “ She boasts full of self-importance, like whatever hollow story she was regaling Langdon is in anyway more important than what Venable was there to do.

“Shut your mouth this has nothing to do with you,” Miss Venable snaps bullishly, but in doing so, lets her agitation show. Her response wasn’t a tempered one, or a tired withering one, but tempestuous and angry. She marches what few steps she can toward him, wanting to raise her hand right now before the storm of anger spills from her heart, before the shackles come off and she loses herself entirely to her hate, and her _love._

Langdon ran his tongue over his bottom lip in barely constrained joy. “Dear Evie here was just telling about to tell me about how much she hates her grandson.” He gestures with one arm, and Evie throws a theatrical shrug, unabashed by her selfishness. “Titillating, to say the least.” Coco gapes at the old woman and scoffs in disgust. “Everyone deserves their time in the spotlight, and you’ve had your turn.”

Venable shakes her head, laughing unimpressed at the boys audacity. “Don’t ply me with false platitudes, when we all know these interviews are just for show,” She growls in a husky voice, her emotions undercutting her hate.

“Interesting you would think that, it couldn't _possibly_ be the bitterness that you failed _your_ Co-operation,” Langdon reveals, the knowledge of her failure suddenly available to the room. The tiny hairs prickle on the back of Wilhemina’s neck, fear crawling up her spine the same way his hands had done, that same feeling of vulnerability being produced in her body. It wasn’t so much a physical threat this time as a symbolic one, her omnipotence and authority brought into question _yet again._

Mallory's eyes widen. If Venable failed, and Gallant is strung up in the basement, what hope is there for her? Running from her interview making things explode out of nowhere, she was done for. “Oh my God Mallory did you hear that?” Coco whispers, not noticing her assistants grave expression.

Miss Venable flicks her eyes anxiously to the girls, her heart fluttering just knowing their respect for her was depleting with each second. _Come on Mina, don't let him do this,_ _don’t let him keep us apart!_ Wilhemina could practically hear the girl’s words in her head as her her fingers fumble the cap of the needle off, trying to hold her cane hold the syringe but her fingers were numb with tension and despair. _He needs to die._

“Venable failed?” Mallory cant quite believe it. They’d all thought her acceptance a given, she worked for the Co-operative same as Langdon did, she had watched over them and kept them alive for 18 long months and now they were casting her aside like her contribution meant nothing? It didn't make any sense. Who _were_ these people? 

“Least theres one more space for the rest of us.” Coco snarks selfishly, folding her arms as though Venables downfall was somehow elevating her own status.

Evie puffs like a peacock ruffling its feathers brighter and prouder than the others. “I’m not surprised, you’re hardly good company dearie,” She drawls, the gloves coming off now Venable was unseated from her position of importance. “You really do bring down the mood.”

Unafraid of Miss Venable’s prospective murder weapon, Langdon sidles toward her as he talks, stopping barely inches away with such an over-inflated sense of immature confidence it made Wilhemina’s jaw ache with murderous desire. “And yet the venerable doctor passed with flying colours,” He grinned, leaning in close to murmur only to her. “Interesting that she hasn’t told you yet.”

Venable shook angrily, hiding the hurt of your betrayal behind her fixed, resolute features. She couldn't think about that now, or let his words distract her. No more talking. “Tell me where the Sanctuary is!” Miss Venable demands angrily, snapping her arm up and holding the syringe full of life-ending drugs aloft. She had vowed in that moment, that singular moment of his unzipping her dress, playing his fingers across her skin, conjuring memories of the girl, _her girl_ , that wonderful tender thing that had appeared unexpectedly in her life and given her everything; Wilhemina had vowed to kill him for it. He had tried to poison even the memories of her by doing what he had done in that Co-operation.

Mallory peers at the woman, at the craziness of the scene unfolding in front of her. “What the hell is in that syringe?” She mutters to herself, wanting to get closer, something oddly prescient about this whole thing. Like she had been waiting for this moment her whole life, and now was bearing witness to it, not just for herself but for everyone, for history. 

Langdon chuckles. “Why? Its not like you’re ever going to see it.”

“Ms Mead.” Miss Venable calls, turning her head to the loyal woman with a cunning smile, her deputy still standing inside of the doors. Her back-up was slyly on hand to provide the physical firepower that Venable knew she would lack, should it come down to it. The sergeant-like steps of Meads clomp forwards, her dark lipstick being pulled into a smile as she unclips the gun from her belt, and lifts it, pointing directly at Langdon’s chest.

He huffs, unconcerned. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Venable clacks her cane commandingly. “The Co-operative gave me complete and absolute authority in this Outpost, and as such I sentence you to death,” She projects loudly, lifting her arm again readying herself to stab him, knowing if not hers then Meads shot would still his heart and chill his body and in mere minutes, things would be back the way they always should have been.

Her head snaps to Mead, _why wasn’t she firing?_ She raps her cane on the floor. “Ms Mead.”

But to her utter shock and despair, Meads arm is deviating off course, changing target, and is pointing the gun directly at _her._ Wilhemina blinks, staring down the barrel of Meads gun, and the tunnel of darkness that offers her only a lonely, empty death. Her chest hitches, her last breath on this earth a shaky, petrified one, shaking her head, not understanding, not wanting to, unable to do anything about it as Mead’s finger squeezes the lever, depressing the trigger and firing the gun.

Unlike everyone else, who is staring at Venable, Mead and Langdon with a gasp in their chests, Coco screaming, Mallory looks at the doorway, and _you_ careering through it as you leap toward Miss Venable’s outstretched arm, needing to stop her committing to this course of action she can’t take back. “Miss Venable don’t!” You cry out knocking into her, her body jolting at the sound of the gun being fired, her hand releasing the syringe as you collide with her.

You tumble over from the momentum, your knees shattering in pain as you land. You catch your breath in relief knowing you succeeded at the last moment, you’ve saved her from herself, from this dark path of revenge. _You love her,_ you didn’t want the hate to consume her.

“I don’t know why I did that!” Mead shudders, her words tripping in confusion, blinking at Venable and wondering why she's still standing. Venable looks at her hands, both empty. Her cane, the syringe and you, all scattered about on the floor.

Seeing her cane had also clattered to the floor as collateral damage, you reach for it, but something splits painfully in your side. “Ahh…,” You wince, and its only when you drag your foot forwards and underneath you to stand back up, her cane in hand, that you notice it again. Your leg slips, your body crumples back to the floor and a searing hot pain seeps through you from its deep throbbing epicentre on your flank. You look down at yourself, blood creeping out across the bodice of your dress with dangerous speed.

“Oh shit,” Mallory wobbles.

Miss Venable manages an unsteady step or two to your side, almost falling to a crouching position as she looks you over, her brow frowning hard, trying to silently assess _what the hell just happened._ You press your hand painfully over the wound, belatedly putting the pieces of the event together as you look around the room, Mead with her gun raised, Langdon’s smug expression, and Venable’s horror.

Why had Mead shot at the one person she was meant to be loyal to? Why did Langdon not seem to mind one way or another about your death? Or anyones death?

“Shame. Your soul was so very corruptible,” Langdon murmurs, wandering over to you looking down at your slowly exsanguinating body with nonchalance. “Though you’d already seen to that, hadn’t you Miss Venable?”

If her cane had a dagger in it like it had meant to before her alternations to it, she would have unscrewed it and stabbed the bastard right now, but there was nothing. Her heart was hammering harder and harder in her chest as her teeth almost bared in outrage for what he’d done - _he’d done_ , he’d done this, somehow, it was his fault, it was all his fault and he needed to _die._

Your eyes lift to Langdon, all his lies you’d lapped up dancing around now on his face with what looked like a triumphant sense of _joy._ You couldn't understand, and there was too much to un-pick later when you had dealt with the situation at hand. You were bleeding out, you needed the medical kit and you needed this done with.

If he had somehow planned this, had Mead on side this whole time, spying for him or working for him, then Venable was more of a victim at the hands of the Co-operative than you ever realised. Something uncomfortably digs into your hip, and subtly shifting not to upset your wound you reach underneath you, touching the edge of the plastic with your fingertips. You still, and your eyes widen as you look at Miss Venable, waiting for her to understand what it is you’re saying through your body language alone.

“She never stood a chance,” Langdon sighed prophetically, as you cough a mouthful of blood from your mouth, just about able to subtly retrieve the syringe from underneath you, and tipping your head up to look at Langdon. He smiles, as if to say he knows your good-natured self isn’t going to let you do this, you threw yourself at her to _stop her,_ your dogged self sacrificing nature and altruism doesn’t allow for Venable’s intent. _You just won’t do it._ Langdon huffs at you mockingly.

You close your eyes. You feel the hard plastic in your palm like you had so many times before; a life saving shot of adrenaline, an antibiotic to fight an infection, a hundred other drugs on a hundred other occasions but never like this. You’re a doctor, you help people. _Save lives._

Or you did; that was your life before the bombs, before all this. The ICU was a long time ago. Blinking your eyes open, you find Venable is staring hungrily back at you, her chest heaving in hurt, loss, grief, _pain_.

Langdon steps to her side, leaning down just enough to smooth his hand over Miss Venable’s shoulder, the tip of his thumb stroking the skin over her collar, up her neck with a slow hum. She lifts her head to look up at him; her taught curved hair and dark styled dresses had acted as a costume the whole time, playing masquerade to hide herself away, not let the world see the grieving woman she was inside.

She wasn't just mourning for the girl that was left behind, but for herself. Her lust for life and ability to trust, to smile, to simply enjoy living, had all gone. Chipped away over time since the assault on the street, those men kicking and beating on her because they could, because it was _easy,_ since her back started to curve and break and children in high school pointed and called her names, always a target for others hurtful jibes. Since Langdon unzipped her dress and stripped her back bare for his own enjoyment, tearing her down because he wanted to see her break. “Maybe being on your knees suits you after all,” He murmurs with a soft chuckle, squeezing her shoulder possessively. A single tear breaks from her eyes as he says it.

 _Don't you dare,_ you growl protectively, his words ringing in your ears. _I do wonder what it is that would make you really, break_.

You will your strength together bringing your arm up from under you, and press the syringe into her hand. _Do it._ Wilhemina curls her fingers around it, the movement so delicate you could have blinked and missed it. She holds the syringe like a dart, and using every inch of strength and power in her legs she pushes up, launching herself to her feet whirling around with an animalistic cry stabbing the syringe into his jugular, jamming her other hand down onto the plunger.

She stumbles back, her own actions somehow jarring, _she actually did it._ Despite the bullet wound you try to hold up her cane for her, easier to focus on her, _her needs,_ than the knowing of how bad your injuries are. You clutch your side as the movement aggravates the bullet stuck inside your guts somewhere.

Langdon shakily reaches his hand up to his neck, feeling his fingers around the needle and yanks it from his bloodstream, blinking back the blurring vision and heaviness in his mind that starts to cloud his senses. “I’ll see you on the other side …,” He slurs, before the syringe rolls out of his hand, his muscles slacking and his body losing tension, dropping to the floor with a heavy, final, thud.

“Great, now you’ve condemned us all!” Evie throws her hands in the air breaking the silent pressured atmosphere that hung between you all.

Coco creeps toward Langdon’s limp body with a lip-wobbling wail. “Oh my God did you actually kill him?!” Mallory breaks from Coco’s arm to drop to one knee beside Langdon and touch two fingers to his neck like she’d seen done in movies. She nods blankly at Coco, at odds with how she should be feeling, seeing his dead body sprawled on the floor. Shouldn’t there be remorse? Sadness? But something twitches at the back of her mind as she stares at him.

Miss Venable sniffs a deep breath, wiping any trace of emotion from her cheek before reaching down to take the cane from you, placing its end to the floor with a quiet rap, drawing herself tall, strong, _finished._ She gazes down at you with silent, solidifying acknowledgement of your contribution, your connection, tapping the cane lightly on the floor beside you.

“You selfish bitch!” Coco rounds on Venable, the flurry of motion making Venable’s eyes widen. “He was going to save us - !“ She yells, her heels stamping as she marches toward her not even knowing what she wants to do with all this wild emotional energy.

But Wilhemina simply laughs at the misguidedness of Coco’s anger, at who she thinks she's talking to. That _anything,_ she could possibly spout from those prissy glossy lips could chink the fresh new armour Venable has gotten on. The experience with Langdon was edifying, and in killing him, it was as if she was putting those demons to rest, closing the chapter on her deepest fears, in a healing, transformative way.

“He was never going to save any of you,” Venable says, projecting her voice loudly and banging her cane on the floor stepping over your legs to stop Coco in her tracks. “You were simply too naive and self involved to see that. Silly girl.”

The scornful put-down brings about a childish sense of diminutiveness, as though her outburst was some temper tantrum and not a legitimate feeling of horror and loss seeing a man shot right in front of you. Especially when that man was supposed to be coming here to save you.

“He lied to me too, Coco,” You offer from the floor, coughing from the strain of talking up louder than you could manage, and you wipe the back of your hand over your mouth. You stare worryingly at the bloody smear on your skin. You need to get this bullet out and stitch yourself up sooner rather than later.

Coco stomps away with a chesty groan, Mallory hurrying after her. “Where are you going?”

“Out of here!” She bleats, shooting a sour expression in Miss Venable’s direction, bumping shoulders with another pair running toward the room, not away from it. “Move!”

Mead instinctively raises her gun as she hears the pounding of footsteps running through hallway around the fire toward you all, then puffs and drops it again seeing who it is. “Whats happening? We heard a gunshot!” Timothy and Emily tumble through the doorway in panting breaths, quickly staring around the room surveying the scene, the body on the floor.

Emily’s hand lifts to her mouth, stunned. “Is he, dead?”

Evie nods a resigned sigh. “Miss Venable killed him with a syringe of _something or other._ ”

You shift awkwardly on the floor, grumbling through the pain as the others talk, forgetting you’re just there suffering and bleeding; you literally saved Wilhemina Venable’s life and no-one had thanked you just yet. “So, what about the Sanctuary? We’re not going?” Emily slid her hand into Timothy’s and pulled him close, needing that physical reassurance that everything was going to be alright. 

Timothy squeezed her hand briefly, then yanked it away again, snapping his fingers to her with a spark of idea. “The laptop.” He suddenly turns on his heels and bolts from the room.

“What laptop?” Miss Venable frowns.

Ms Mead starts to talk but closes her mouth again, shifting weight between her boots. “Thats right, they told me earlier. He has a functioning laptop, it should have everything we need to -“

“And to think, I thought you _loyal_ to me.” Venable judges the woman lacking, turning her head to Mead aghast, as if attempting to assassinate her wasn’t already enough to sever that bond.

“I _am,_ Miss Venable, believe me when I say I will be loyal to you until the very end - “ Mead says emphatically, seeing the veil of trust fall away from Miss Venable; and considering the way her gun mysteriously redirected itself, it was an undeniable betrayal.

Venable’s cane clacks as she shakes her head with a bitter laugh. “And yet you failed to tell me this rather vital piece of information.”

You groan softly trying not to draw attention to yourself but also you’re still there, still in pain. “And she nearly _shot_ you.” Emily picks up the sides of her dress and comes over to you, crouching down to see if theres anything she can do to help. Its kind of her, and you appreciate someone stepping outside their own selfishness for a moment; you know they’re worried about the Sanctuary, about starving all over again, but you weren't going to have to think about that if you didn't get this bleeding under control soon.

Emily yanks at the hem of her dress, ripping a long strip off all the way around the bottom, tearing the material clean off and using it as wadding to press against your belly. “There,” She smiles the best she can, though she looks unconvinced. “This’ll help.”

Mead starts to fret, as well as clenching her teeth at your sudden and convenient ability to play the victim, earn Venables sympathies and seal whatever supposed bond you had even harder. “I didn't mean to I - “ She insists. “I was pointing it at him and then … then my arm moved …”

As Timothy returns at a jog into the room, he sets it down on the coffee table and lifts up the monitor screen, his face lit up from the blue-screen lighting and starts searching through Langdon’s laptop with uninhibited freedom.

Miss Venable squeezes the head of her cane, bunching her lips in frustration. She couldn’t let him find the location co-ordinates, remove that sliver of power she had regained from killing Langdon. With him out of the picture, she was fully at the helm once again, able to make her own selections for the Sanctuary as should _always_ have been the plan. “Give that to me,” She bids him firmly, walking calmly over with a beckoning flick of her fingers. Timothy looks back at her, uncertain. But Venable simply stops at the table, leans slowly over and presses the screen shut with a small click, raising her eyebrows at the boy. He sighs, sits back on his haunches and picks the almost alien feeling technology in both hands and gives it over to her. “There has been far too much, spiritedness for one day.” Venable tucks the thing under her arm. “Any questions you have can wait until dinner. I suggest you spend your last afternoon in quiet contemplation, until then.”

Evie rolls her eyes and gets up from the chair, leaving with a string of low mutters to herself, along with the nameless Greys that had been with Mallory earlier. Venable turns to regard you finally, sitting quietly aside from the occasional hiss of pain. Emily makes you lift the wad of material that was staunching the wound, checking on its progress. “I think we need to move her,” She tells Venable worriedly, “This isn't stopping.”

“Either me or the medical kit, it should have what I need,” You nod with panting breaths.

Timothy unbuttons his dinner jacket and yanks his arms out one by one, offering it to Emily if it might help. “Wheres that?” He says, undoing his cuffs and rolling the sleeves of this shirt up readying to help lift you from the floor.

Venable runs her fingers across her forehead, the usual etiquette for any situation currently thrown to the wind, the boy practically undressing and you ruining a perfectly good dress; but putting aside all of that for a moment, she allowed herself to swallow a satisfied breath.

Langdon was dead, you’d hindered, and then helped that particular situation. You’d stopped a stray bullet. Wilhemina didn't want to dwell on her admittedly complicated feelings in this moment. “My room.” Emily and Timothy exchanged glances, her admittance all they needed to confirm their little bet to one another that thats exactly where you had been sneaking off to these past few months. Emily suppressed a small smirk, pushing back up onto her feet as Timothy moved in, reaching his arm under your back and easing your arm up over his shoulder.

“That good?” He checks, hefting you a little more upright. You wince initially, but nod.

Mead strides in to your other side, copying the motion. “You boy take one side, and I’ll - “

Two fingers tap her shoulder, as Venable condemns her with a small, cursory shake of the head. “Not you.”

Mead looks astonished. “But I can help.”

“Oh, you’ve helped quite enough already.” Miss Venable raps her cane like a judges gavel, dismissing Mead from any further _helping_ she might be inclined to try and do. “Thank you, Ms Mead.” 

You almost feel for the woman, looking genuinely hurt as Miss Venable cuts the cord and rejects her. But as she turns and storms off, shaking her head you remind yourself, it was _her_ that fired the gun. That got you in this mess and if it weren’t for one heck of a coincidence it wouldn’t be you lying here bleeding, but Miss Venable.

Taking Meads place on your other side Emily waves her dress out of the way as she copies Timothy’s supportive hold of you, and together they get you to your feet. “Okay on 3, 1-2 _-3!_ ” They chant in unison, a long guttural groan escaping your lips without meaning to. You’d been trying to keep as quiet as possible up until now, not let anyone - especially Miss Venable know the state you were in.

With your arms hooked over both of their shoulders, you walk three-a-breast out of the room and slowly round the central fire, the crackling wood seeming so loud when there was nothing else to hear between that and your heartbeat. Miss Venable leads, her arm folded around the laptop securely as she leans on her cane with each step. You watch her gait, and wonder how you had come so far from where you had been 6 months ago, sitting in the library watching her from afar, your world existing only in the palm of your hands in whatever book you were reading, and your own quiet thoughts. Now you were in love with her, had had some of the most poignant and epiphanic moments of your life with her; and now you bled, because you had thrown yourself in front of a bullet for her.

Miss Venable doesn’t say anything until you all reach her suite of rooms, the necessity of needing to let the young couple in, a line she would never had previously crossed. But she can’t carry you to the bed, there was no point in pretending that. So she simply gestures through the door to the right, to the doorway that had so teased your waking daydreams as to what her bedroom could be like. You remember that first time she asked you through, dragged her petticoat erotically up her thighs and spread her legs beckoning you to come between them, drawing a mewling gasp from her as you fucked, and after, cutting the corset from your back to whip you raw.

Timothy loops his arm out from behind you, and deposits you on the side of the bed. Miss Venable hardens her features, straining her jaw she was clenching it so tight, feeling unsettled and vulnerable them being here. Seeing things. Simply, infecting it with their presence.

You whimper through gritted teeth as you shift yourself onto the pillows, directing Emily back to where the med kits were behind the main door. Wilhemina looks at you, the emotions in her eyes so mixed between the twitching dislike of them being in her bedroom, with the gratifying release of fear now Langdon was dead, but at the potential cost of you? Was sacrificing you to potentially get herself to the Sanctuary, to her girlfriend, a trade off she was going to be forced to make?

Emily plonks the bags on the bed next to you, then folds her arms anxiously as you cough anther mouthful of blood. “Could really use some of that painkiller,” You chuckle, trying to be funny and stop that look on everyones faces.

“Surely the Sanctuary will have another doctor?” Emily says lightly, trying to be hopeful.

“He said the place was set to last 10 years.” Timothy agrees. But with a side glance to Miss Venable, he ducks his head and points awkwardly to the door, heading out. “We’re just going to… go.” His hand finds the small of Emily’s back as they walk out together.

Miss Venable waits, unmoving until she hears the door swing open and closed again, only then stepping closer to the edge of the bed, having to confront what was happening. You fumble blindly around in the bags for some packs of gauze, ripping them open and swapping out Emily’s dress material for the better alternative, knowing you’re going to need to get this dress off and somehow irrigate the wound, before fishing around inside yourself with your fingers to find the bullet, and there’s not a drop of painkiller to do it with. You laugh bitterly, a strange irony to the situation. For all the meds there had been 6 months ago, you were now left to do fairly major surgery on yourself with only whisky as anaesthetic and analgesia.

You flop back onto the pillows for a moment, catching your breath and closing your eyes. Its all too painful. Too much, and for the first time in your clinical career, you doubt your ability to pull this off.

A soft cool touch comes over your hand, and you slowly peel your eyes open to look down, and you realise Miss Venable is touching her hand over yours. You lift your eyes to her, but she's not looking at you, she's being avoidant, worry etched into the creases in the corners of her eyes. “Will you make it?” She finally murmurs, bringing her gaze round to you.

“To the Sanctuary?” You play your thumb over her fingers, accepting the gesture, the tenderness. Here she was, _Wilhemina Venable_ , not just Miss Venable of Outpost 3. She had survived the ordeal with Michael Langdon, and come out the other side of it, bruised, but not broken.

Her head tilts diminutively. “I meant, _live_. But, that too.”

You nod, squeezing her hand with false reassurance. “I’ve got to.” You whisper, feeling your emotions swell, the love you have for her, and the love that could never compare. “I want to meet her.” You smile softly, and rub away the tears from your eyes. _I will get you there,_ you want to say.

But you don't want to make her promises you cant definitely keep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found these emotions really hard, thats why its taken a week and not a few days, apologies. I just want to get it right, for them, and for you guys.

It had been a difficult night, and some of the messiest surgery you’d done. Not that it was really a skill of yours in the first place; _especially_ not doing it on yourself, with only a wobbly mirror _held by Miss Venable_ to see what you were doing.

Even though doctors orders would be to rest, sleep through the recovery for a few hours, its not an option. You’re a little feverish already from the lack of sterile equipment and there’s too much going around in your mind.

You stare at the wall, pretending to be asleep a while longer. You can hear Venable in the chair beside the bed, fingers tapping lightly on what you assume is Langdon’s laptop. The chair is still there from what seemed like eons ago when she decided to invite you deeper into her world, open up old wounds from the past and draw you on her bed, _this bed_ that you were now using for entirely different reasons. You’d stained the sheets bloody, and a few short weeks ago that would've been an act punishable by spending all evening on your knees, back bared, clit throbbing aching for her to touch you again. You smile to yourself through half closed eyes, even the thoughts of such things creating a soft fluttering in your belly.

Feeling Miss Venable’s fingertips brushing your forearm, you roll your head over to the sensation, still smiling lightly. “I thought you were awake,” She huffs quietly, sitting back and closing the lid of the laptop. She waits a while before talking again, setting the laptop aside, returning her cane to her fingers instead, twirling it. “You’re getting too used to that. Keeping things from me.”

You lay your arm over your belly protectively, as you lean on the other to ease yourself a little more upright on the pillows. Settling again with a few breathy puffs, you dare to send your guilty eyes in her direction. Venable keeps rolling the cane between her fingers with a firm resolve to her eyes, not asking, simply waiting. _You know she knows._ What to you had felt as a decision you’d made in earnest; let everyone have their interviews, have their chance to ‘win their place’ (though to you the very concept seemed banal when he could have just as easily taken everyone), seemed somehow, foolish now. How did you think this would play out? Not telling her the truth right away? But hindsight was a powerful tool. “The interview.” You admit regretfully.

Her hand brings the cane to a still, tapping it on the floor finally. “Langdon told me.” Venable takes a slow breath in and out, tensing her shoulders and lengthening her neck, somehow physically exuding the strength this gave her, _your confession_. Taking back anything that Langdon stole, including these moments of how he influenced you, changed your behaviour to keep something like that from her. He had played on your goodness, your need to save everyone and it almost severed this _relationship_ , whatever it is.

“I’m sorry …,” You utter softly, the gesture smaller than throwing yourself at her mercy as you would want, but physically this was all that you could manage. You press your eyes shut, unable to get the image out of your head. His hand taking her shoulder, his touch unwanted, his _intent_ clear.

It was one of the most painful cruelties you’d ever seen. For in claiming Venable for himself on her knees like that, as if one could be subjugated into it, forced down to have no choice but to accept the rule of another, he’d inadvertently sealed his own fate.

The terror in Miss Venable’s eyes had struck you somewhere deep and primal.

You’d put aside your morals about life and death in that moment, to want to _save her._ You wouldn't have returned the syringe, enabled the action, condoned it almost if you didn't believe it to be the morally right course of action. In that singular moment, at least. Although a terrible act in its own right, you had allowed it to play out, its what she had gone there to do in the first place, right? You simply, needed to open your eyes to see it, _him,_ before you could let her go through with it. His manipulation in using Miss Venables past to sway her _Co-operation,_ whatever he was trying to do which, she hadn’t fully said; it was emotional blackmail, and particularly cruel yes but it didn’t mean he deserved to be murdered for it. You’d misinterpreted her desire to kill as purely emotional backlash, grief, sadness.

But witnessing a woman so strong, so goddam stubborn and beautiful, crushed before your eyes, him gaining symbolic mastery over her will? You’d understood that she was right all along. He needed to die.

You saw _him,_ darkly destroying everything about her that you love. You saw how all of it; the conversations and Co-operations were just _false,_ for his amusement, to pitch you against one another and toy with your very survival. To see how far and how despicable you would all become clawing your way out just to _live._

Killing him was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it? _You want to believe that._ You want to believe that in loving her, it allowed for this; his malice toward her somehow balancing the scales to deem your actions acceptable. _Explainable -_ for another to say they would have done the same thing. 

You knew the balance, the weight of carrying the fate of another life in your hands more than most, and yet, for all the lives you had saved before the bombs, all the lives you had likely saved by allowing Langdon to perish at Venables hand, you would never be able to exonerate yourself or excuse your part in it.

Was killing one to save the many, ever fully forgivable?

Miss Venable tsk’s dismissively. This was likely the first time you had done anything wrong beyond an overdue library book. She recognised there was a lot to process, but it doesn’t mean things should go unsaid. “It should have come from you.”

“He promised me we would _both_ be going, to the Sanctuary.” It shouldn't matter now, but you want to explain yourself. You want her to know your intention was to do good, the right thing; you had tugged her back from a precipice, tried to stop her destroying herself in her desperate need for revenge. She craved closure, to avenge the death of her girlfriend, or at least, her being left behind. And for a moment you had stood in her way. “I trusted the process, _him._ It was foolish of me.” Miss Venable shakes her head at you as though a displeased tutor, your behaviour or test grades falling short of what she desires.

“I hope you’ve come to learn from this, what weakness he was trying to exploit.” Miss Venable denounces it as though in helping her she’s purged you of such feeble human worries like having a conscience. “Your good nature nearly got you killed.” Her words are damning, and you wonder when it became wrong to want to see the good in people. To have a moral compass.

“But it saved your life,” You retort a little sharper than you meant.

Her eyes flash aggrievedly at you, but then soften at the last moment. Wilhemina drops her chin a little, staring at her lap. She should say something, but how to do so? The need to expunge it is, agitating. “I haven’t thanked you for that,” Miss Venable murmurs, playing the cane around and around in her hand, until she cant take it anymore and simply pushes on it, standing, playing out the layers of her dress more comfortably as she walks stiffly to the head of the bed, to you. She sits sideways at the level of your waist, draws back the layers of nightshirt you’d wrestled yourself into to cast an examining eye over the external of the wound dressing.

“You don't have to, thank me.” You mumble, feeling a little foolish. Would you have done the same, _knowing_ the bullet was coming? Probably. But doing it accidentally felt like you just falling short again, somehow. You clear you throat and fumble the nightshirt down again, compelling her to retract her hand. She gives you a look, but says nothing. “Did you find anything, on Langdon’s laptop?”

Miss Venable nods affirmatively, the movement slow, contemplative rather than joyous. You can see the fear behind her eyes, that it could all be for nothing. That she could get there, _if_ either of you even successfully make the journey, to arrive and find out she's still dead after all. “Everything we need. I have the location and co-ordinates of the Sanctuary, his return carriage will be arriving this afternoon.” You can feel her pulling away from you. You would never wish ill on anyone, but you know deep down that her girlfriends survival will spell the end to _everything_ you have with her. “You need to be strong enough to travel by then.” Her fingers fiddle the edge of your nightshirt neatly into place, a subtle display of her underlying anxiety.

You put your hand calmly atop hers. “I will be.” You catch her eyes as she dares to lift her gaze to yours, sucking her lips in tightly, unable to verbalise her feelings on any of this. Wilhemina wasn’t one to let things tumble out; but yesterday had been harrowing, today was all adrenaline and anticipation, nothing was quite safe and settled in her mind as it usually was. Her self-control was slipping, and it worried her. For in the process of letting out her grief those few nights ago, it opened her up to feeling, _all the feelings_ she had smothered and put away. 

A brisk knock at the door interrupts the poignancy of the moment, and Miss Venables hand slips free of yours as if it was never there. It takes her longer than usual walk across the room, leaning heavily on her cane. She does a quick brush of her perfect pulled-back hair, before answering the door. 

“Ms Mead. I thought I made myself clear last night.” Miss Venable taps her cane authoritatively on the floor, most of her expression coming through the way she used it. She doesn’t move from the doorway. 

You’re not trying to overhear, but the rest of the room is just silence, and your own breathing. Their words drift in regardless, and for a moment you fear for her safety as you hear who it is. Was Mead here to finish the job, now Langdon was dead?

“I carried on with the plan. _Our_ plan,” Mead informs the Administrator, presenting herself as organised and together, hoping her intuition will necessitate Venable seeing her at her best, for her worth. “I wanted to show you my loyalty is absolute. If you need convincing of that well, here you have it.” Her arms gesture limply at her sides.

Venable grinds the nub of her cane into the floor. “You attempted my assassination,” She points out, not attempting to shield her contempt for the woman.

“I don’t know why I - why that happened. I was always loyal to you.” Mead entreats, urging toward her into the room with a forward step. She needs her trust back - her _position_ back; but before Venable allows this notion to run away with itself in her previously staunch loyalist, she slams her cane loudly to the floor. Mead halts immediately. “It must have been something from him, some mind control - “ she tries to explain the inexplainable.

Miss Venable sighs deeply, debating this excuse. It did seem strange, especially for it to only be in that second that harm was threatened upon Langdon, that she deviated from Venables control. _Who was Michael Langdon?_ He had delved into your past, somehow known things about her, and taken Mead to his cause all with only a narrow smirking look into someones eyes. Venable chews the name and spits it out. “Langdon.”

Mead nodded, not offering further clarification, for neither of them had any. It was simply a mutual understanding, agreement that that _must be_ the answer. “I injected the cubes for todays lunch with the poison I extracted from the snakes. They’ll all eat it up no questions asked, they're so goddam starving. We all are.”

 _Did she just say poison?_ You lean heavily on your arm, biting down a growl of pain as you drag your body into an upright position, swinging your legs around off the side of the bed.

“A final meal to celebrate,” Miss Venable murmurs, debating the validity of continuing the plan, how best to pull it off within the constraints of the time left to them. She gestures inside the room, bringing Mead back in from the cold. But more than that, she was unwilling to let their conversation be overheard at the 11th hour.

Mead shuts the door behind her ensuring their privacy, folding her arms, proud of her ingenuity. “Exactly.”

“And you’ve kept ours aside. _Hers_.” Miss Venable tilts her head just so, her eyes barely turning - but enough side glance and gesture toward her bedroom. Toward you. You push both hands either side of your hips to struggle to your feet, muffling your groans by biting on your fist. “I know you’re, not a fan of my … choices.” You hear her say, and you freeze. Your gaze dips. She's chosen you. She’s talking about you as, an extension of herself, that you belong to her. Her words warm you tenderly. She's acknowledging not only your significance, but her awareness that Ms Mead has struggled to accept it. 

Stepping carefully, you reach a hand to the wall as you need to lean you weight on something. Its more effort than you want it to be, but you want to be present in this conversation - you know she's different when you’re there, and Ms Mead brings out the worst tendencies in her. You’ve already heard too much, things that rot your core. _Poison?_ You’d only just gotten the location of the Sanctuary, the answer to all of your problems - the depleting food situation for one. Why do this now? 

Ms Mead sends her gaze toward the bedroom doorway, with begrudging acceptance. Miss Venable has clearly indicated that you’re still here, and you’re not going anywhere. Mead tucks her hands in front of her, gripping them together in an official stance, summoning all her strength to try and see you the way Venable does, indispensable. Chosen. “I wouldn't do anything without your orders, Miss Venable.”

The Administrator nods slowly, and you listen still from where you are, half in half out the doorway but hidden from sight. “Good.” She strides once more toward the door, her joints achingly stiff, a nod of agreement given to Mead, as well as at the last moment, a hand upon her shoulder. “Thank you for taking care of this.”

“Of course.” Mead seems emboldened by the touch, her decision to come here legitimised.

You stay where you are until the door closes. You don't want to call it hiding - you were shot yesterday and any kind of movement is difficult, but you’re still unwilling to trust Mead as far as you could throw her. Which wasn’t far. As Miss Venable turns, returning with a slow tread of her boots toward her bedroom, she blinks back seeing you hovering, out of bed. “You don't mean it. Miss Venable, you’re not going to kill everyone?” You beg to hear the truth. Not now, not after everything. This wasn’t control, or masochism, or grief. It was premeditated.

Wilhemina snaps her fingers at you, ordering you with a point of her fingers to get yourself back to bed, her features twisting. You shouldn't have heard that. It would have been better not to burden you. It was just the sort of thing your moral conscience would find hard to acquiesce. “Not everyone,” She corrects you gently, bending as low as she comfortably can to catch your ankle encouraging helping, you back onto the bed. You wonder how the two sides of her don't collide harder; her personality that must have existed before - this loving, caring woman who clearly yearned for someone, helping you onto the bed with a tenderness you’d never expected possible from Miss Venable; and this creature made of anger and grief that so calmly spoke of murder. “The right people, _us_ , we will survive.” Her decree was resolute, and determined. She _would right that wrong_ that she was powerless to change. She may have failed in her duty to protect the girl that came before, but she would drag you to the damn Sanctuary herself if she had to, and never let you go. “That is whats important.” She sits beside you once more, back straight and poised, folding her hands elegantly in her lap, leaving her cane to rest against her leg.

You shift on the pillows trying to find where you were comfiest before. “You don't have to do this, Miss Venable, please,” You whine, your ability to reason her through this and change her mind, limited at best. “You have the location of the Sanctuary. We can go, this afternoon.” 

Wilhemina ignores your pleas, leaning with a gentle hand to soften the pillows under you, position them just so. Theres a kindness in how she tended to you that you yearn to be worthy of. You gaze into her eyes, the conflicting sides to her warring just beneath the surface. “And what do you think will happen when there is more of us, than there is seats, in that carriage? Hmm?” Wilhemina smoothes the hair from your damp brow, distracting herself as she talks. She tells herself she could be happy with you, that, _perhaps she could learn to be happy again._ You see her darkness, accept it, and don't try to change her. “You can’t save everyone,” She murmurs, from painful experience, the backs of her fingers grazing down your cheek. “Someone, has to make the hard choices.”

Wilhemina knew she had to be the strong one. That she could do this, for you. Relieve you of such burdens by taking the terrible decisions upon herself, for you, the both of you to make it. _To live._

Your heart burns so brightly for her, you catch yourself closing your eyes, nuzzling your cheek into her touch and reaching up to take her hand in your own. “So let them make their own choices,” You urge. “Give them the Co-ordinates. Let people decide for themselves, if they want to go, or stay, make their own way.” Miss Venable sighs heavily at you, staring away from your conscience ladling on the self doubt. The human cost of her decision wasn’t counted in bodies, but the ghosts that would follow her around in her mind. “It doesn’t have to be that carriage, with rad-suits and a working car safe passage _could_ be possible.”

Wilhemina scoffs, though there is affection in the tone as she turns back. Her gaze falls on you as though it was drawn there by itself, not moving of her own volition. “I will never understand you.”

You squeeze her hand, its a compliment, and as much as you’d ever garner from her. “The only responsibility you have is to _her_ , and to yourself.” Her intent appears to deflate slowly, the certainty of her decision fallible. Your hand still lays in hers, resting in her lap. She's just patting the back of it with disquiet, the anxiety of the days events lying ahead. Reaching the Sanctuary, _her,_ causes more self-doubt than normal. You can see she's softened around the edges; not _open_ to your input as such but, _listening_ , at least. “Miss Venable,” You whisper, smiling as the corner of her lips twitch.

“And to you,” Wilhemina replies. Your hand nestled between her own, her cane leaning on the side of the bed, she tries to tell you how she feels, though her words are lacking to express such, confusing heat, lust, loss, all at once. She’s not certain of anything at this point, simply adrift, focused on the horizon, her goal so far and seemingly impossible to reach.

Your thumb hooks over hers, stilling her. You might never get another chance to say this. Successful or not, this afternoon will change everything. Your chest is shaky as you breath it out. “I love you.”

Miss Venable dips her gaze, hanging her head slightly. Theres a faint blush to her cheeks, but the potency of your words are undeniable. She never thought she would hear such a phrase uttered again. “I know.”

Her lack of response is inevitable. You weren’t expecting it to be said back, _not really,_ but its absence still punches you in the gut. You understand now more than in any other moment, that she was never yours to love, at all. “So if you love _her,_ like I can tell that you do,” You say, emotion choking your words. You don't know what to say anymore. “Just, make sure you’re still the woman she loves when you get there.”

She was always going to be _Miss Venable_ ; tough, unforgiving and stubborn, dominating and demanding in her love, yet formidable, addictive, and wholly bewitching. This time that you’ve had will always belong to you. No matter the outcome of the journey to the Sanctuary, and for this chance, you’re glad.

Wilhemina lifts a trembling hand to her eye, dabbing lightly, swiping along under it with two fingers, saying nothing. “Being shot really loosened your tongue, didn't it,” She snarks, a playful glint in her eyes as she says it.

You huff. “Apologies, Miss Venable.”

She releases your hand from hers, creasing in the middle as she reaches for her cane, laying it across her lap and starts to twist the silver birds head, unscrewing it. You watch her with a soft frown, your core tightening, your fingertips tingling. “Kneel down,” She instructs you, a slight gesture in the nod of her head indicating the space by her heel. Upending the cane she tips out the thinner, cylindrical one from its interior onto her lap. You wince, using both hands to slowly sit yourself up on the bed, watching her curiously. Was she serious? Right now? It wasn’t exactly the usual, mood. But as she slides her fingers up and down the shaft of the bamboo, her gaze lifts to you almost sadly. Shy, about asking for it. “One last time.” You hold her gaze, so much holding you with her in this moment, you don't want to let it go. The affection in her eyes is all you’d ever longed to see from her, from anyone, to love you.

“Yes Miss Venable,” You say softly, obediently, clasping the bedsheets in one tight fist as you carefully lower yourself to the floor, to your knees.

You bend your elbow in tucking the material up your arm to awkwardly lift the nightdress, and to your surprise, she bends down taking the edges of the thing and lifts it right up and off your head, like a parent, folding it on the bed beside her. You smile gratefully, protecting your injured side as you look up to her from the floor. The bed creaks as she pushes to her feet, steadying herself with on the side of it. Your forehead presses gently to the front of her thighs, and you feel her hand come to the top of your head with a emotive gulp of a breath.

You rest your eyes shut, try to focus on every single feeling in this moment; your knees smarting on the wood, your body aching from yesterdays assaulting shot, and the blushing wetness between your thighs. Kneeling for her submissively like this is, is and always will be the most erotic thing you've ever felt, its heady and lustful, and you cant help the shudder of want that pulses hotly through you, presenting your back to her for maybe the last time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really trying to finish it off in one chapter, but 10k later and I'm still not there, so heres the first half for now to keep you going. I could have just jumped and gone "After they leave the outpost" or something, but I didn't feel it did the characters justice after so long to not follow them through this process, and there is plenty of loose ends to tie up and characters to sort out that I needed more time. Plus its literally the first time any of them bar Mead has seen the surface, so its a massive undertaking emotionally and physically to make this journey.   
> Anyway. Hope this takes the edge off the waiting.

There’s an air of light nervous chatter in the room, an anticipation that floated among the group. Another announcement. Dinah wondered if she could handle any more. Andre leant against the back wall with a dark haired Grey who he’d been talking to recently. He’d given himself long enough to grieve Stu’s mysterious death, and despite Venable’s strict no copulation rule, it didn't stop him from having a little flirt, just so he remembered what the butterflies of a new romance felt like.

Mallory lounged on the sofa knocking back mouthfuls of mineral water with a tired sigh. She was forever hungry of course, so was everyone. The water didn't fill her up and she had little to no energy reserves in her body anymore. She’d given up the pretence of going about her usual work duties with anything that resembled effort. So she slumped between Coco and the recently freed Gallant, who was understandably subdued.

Distinctions between Greys and Purples were not like there once were, the binds of their society starting to break down. The group bonded across party lines now because you were all suffering the same slow decay. Boredom, hunger, the inevitability of death.

Langdon had been a pebble in a pond, sending excited ripples in all directions bringing a hope that none of you had felt for some time. But now he was dead, lying on the floor in Venable’s office.

_Still lying there._

The office doors were drawn closed and no-one said anything about what lay on the other side, even as some Greys you'd never learnt the names of dragged dining chairs past the doors through to the library to sit down where Miss Venable was to be holding court.

You had managed to haul yourself out of bed to accompany her, fresh stinging wounds hidden safely beneath the bones of your corset she had laced tightly for you. The intimacy of such action was new, unknown to your previous selves; nothing like the strict routine of how she had instructed you. But somehow this evolution felt natural considering what you had both been put through, even despite the grief that followed behind her, surfacing unexpectedly now and again.

You had bound the gunshot wound protectively in layers of gauze and bandage, both that and the smarting stripes on your back making you smile as you follow her through the halls. It seems perverse that they bring you comfort, not anguish. Both were going to be peculiar and long lasting reminders of your relationship with Miss Venable.

Your obedient steps trail after Miss Venable and Ms Mead toward the library, placing your sweaty palm on the wall now and again when you need to prop yourself upright again. “Announcement? About what? Miss Venable -“ Mead questions as you walk; such enquiries unlike her. It wasn’t 2 hours ago that she had reignited and carried out the plan ready for lunch cubes. There hadn’t been lunch for over a week so the change of routine was bound to have some questions asked, but not enough that they would turn it down. “Lunch is already prepared. Shouldn't we - “ She hurries alongside Miss Venable, who today was imbued with a pace normally unreachable with her fixed injuries. But the necessity of the whole thing energised her. _Get it done. Get in the carriage. Find her_.

Miss Venable shook her head tightly. “No. Time is against us.”

Mead flanks her opposite side as the three of you present yourself in front of the fireplace. You gladly take to the arm of the leather chair, perching yourself there out of necessity alone. You bite down a wince as you lower yourself onto it - the same chair you had in fact watched _her_ wincing to sit down into, 6 long months ago. The thing that had prompted you to ask, _Are you alright?_ You had not suspected then that your idle fascination with the woman would lead to you exhibiting the same pained behaviour now, for entirely different reasons.

Miss Venable half-glances in your direction, ensuring you’re safely settled before returning her attention to the gossiping gaggle of inhabitants, and her final duty as Administrator. She raps her cane on the floor calling the room to attention, her expression serious, sober. “Before we convene for our final meal, I have an announcement to make.”

The group settles down, shifting in their various seats to face the woman who once again, held their existence in her hands. “Yesterday was, a trying day for us all. Some, more than others.” She paused a beat, hands fidgeting a top her cane. “By now you will all know that Michael Langdon is dead.”

There is a heavy silence.

Should it be acknowledged? His passing? Or is it better to ignore the fact Miss Venable had proved herself unwavering in her dedication to the preservation of this Outpost, _her Outpost._ Murdering one of her own, not just Greys that fell in love.

“Yeah thanks for that,” Coco says under her breath, pulling a face to Gallant, who shrinks into the sofa somewhat, for once not wanting to be associated with her outspoken bursts of noise. He might have eluded Meads whip with proud name dropping, but Langdon’s put-downs had hit the boy hard.

Ignoring the usually punishable sarcasm, Miss Venable clears her throat and continues. “The Co-operations he started were, and are, meaningless. He was never going to take any of you. It was, nothing more than a sick game, we were all roped into.” Her jaw angles tensely, including herself in the list of failures when it came to this man. “Psychological warfare, if you will.”

A rumble of questions and confusions skitter amongst everyone. None truly understood her reasons for killing him, or what happened with Ms Mead and why she shot at Venable. Various theories had surfaced already, circulating from those who saw it, to those who didn’t, the story extrapolating and changing every time it was exchanged.

“So, what does that mean for the Sanctuary?” Emily glances to her boyfriend, his hand finding her leg supportively as she spoke up. They were past hiding it now, if Mead caught them again so be it. They were all going to die soon, better be together in the short time they have left.

Miss Venable stares at the girl, her deep brown eyes and their culpability. She should have her flogged with the boy watching. They were flouting the rules right before her, he should feel the consequences for such disreputable behaviour. Her hatred of such things flared, the need to punish him an itching one.

It's been a minute or two since Emily spoke, and everyone is strung together in this moment of anticipation, staring at Miss Venable keenly, trying to interpret every flicker that passes under the resolutely firm expression she wore in public. You sit forwards, reaching with your free arm to brush her elbow with your fingertips, your touch barely there - but enough to jolt her from her thoughts.

She casts a softly anxious glance around the room, everyone staring at her.

Wilhemina feels the hairs of the back of her neck rise, being caught in such a thought. The lack of self-awareness makes her eye twitch. “I have found the co-ordinates of its location. Among other … _less_ savoury information, on a laptop Langdon left behind,” Miss Venable finally announces, resoundingly rejecting her own fears with a deep breath.

Wobbling to your feet, you lean a half-step closer to her using the cover of everyones chattering joy that the news had brought to shield my words from a public forum. “Less savoury? What does that mean?” You murmur, your hand to her back encouraging her gaze round and down to you for a moment, but she shakes off the question, and your touch. You remind yourself to pry harder later, when you have time. _Remember where you are. Who you are._ The harshness of her eyes seem to say, and you do a small nod of acknowledgement, her boundaries with you always shifting. Later, then.

“We’re saved!” Andre exclaims, hugging the Grey next to him with a carefree laugh, the outburst bringing your attention back to the rest of the room, remembering to smile. It _is good news_ , after all. 

Miss Venable inhales a heavy, already stressed breath into the constraints of her chest. _Not all of them can go. There will not be enough seats._ The seams of her society are splitting apart, and _so quickly_ undone too. Its painful to watch.

Her lips bunch tightly, doubting her decision to trust you, let people be free to decide for themselves. “She and I will be leaving, this afternoon. Langdon has a return carriage arriving at 4pm.” People didn't want to be free, they craved rules, and order, sheep with a shepherd herding them place to place, telling them what to do. Her fingers play her cane between her hands with agitation. “You may come along, or not. That choice is yours.” They were already ignoring her, chatting excitedly about all the change, the possibilities, the end to tyrannical rule and cubes. She clears her throat, then casts a look at Mead.

The henchman starts clapping her hands storming forwards, with a nod to the rest of her Guard to make their presence more obvious to those who might so easily forget. “Heeey pipe down! Show some respect!” She yells brusquely. The noise turns to a grumble, then back to an awkward silence. 

You hug your arm around your aching gut, your insides likely inflamed. You had been lucky the bullet didn’t nick anything vital, but despite that, systemic inflammation was something of an inevitability. The way you control your exhales are not lost on Miss Venable, who can sense your discomfort as well as she knows her own. Time was of the essence not just for the carriage but for your sake too. Your health was at stake here, perhaps, your very survival. “Whatever you choose will have consequences, either way,” Miss Venable says firmly, looking around the Purples and Greys who had been her flock, her chance to remake the world in a tidy, orderly fashion. Theres a twist of sadness in the knowing that this place, her experiment to improve society, was coming to an end. “There will be no more hand holding. If you choose to go it is at your own risk.”

“Mallory we need to pack,” Coco yaps patting her assistants leg. “Earth to Mallory.” She snaps in a deadpan voice, the girl staring forwards not reacting to anything she was saying or doing. It was if her body was here but her mind was somewhere else; her very consciousness tripping, a voice instructing her she didn't recognise. Coco rolled her eyes. How was she stuck with this girl as her assistant for the rest of her life she would never understand. “ _Hellooo -_ you’re the one that knows where all my stuff is, and you’re gonna have to get it all done by 4, whatever the hell the time is now. I’m not forgetting things because you were too distracted _to do your damn job_ \- “

Finally, Mallory slowly turns her head as though hypnotised, the movement strange and slow. “I’m staying.”

Gallant sits forwards, swiping his purple glasses from his nose. “What?” He balks, failing to understand where such a desire would come from. Venable had just had him strung up in the basement his wrists in _actual chains_ , while she was busy shooting Langdon - her supposed boss. The woman was a Psychopath. “Why would you stay in this hell-hole?!”

Mallory shook her head vaguely. “I don’t know. I just … I have this feeling.”

“Oh God you’re not going to make the fireplace explode again are you?” Coco retorted, her mean streak never far from the surface.

“Someones going to come for me. For us,” Mallory insisted, coming to her senses a little more. She knew this, she didn’t know who or how, but she _knew._ She had to stay put.

Gallant shook his head distrustingly. “Thats bullshit, if anyone else was coming it would have happened already.” He couldn't run the risk of believing the stupid girl and then dying here with her when her fortune telling abilities turned out to be nothing but indigestion.

“Make your own decision Coco. Go with them if you like.” Mallory shrugs, done with being pushed about. She had her own life to live and this decision was hers to make. “But I’m staying.” Mallory pushed to her feet and looked at the pair either side of her, then stalked off, and didn't turn back.

Coco stared at her assistant finally growing a backbone, and wondering what the hell was happening. She leaps up after her, hiking up the sides of her impractical dress and hurrying after her. “Well I’m not going without you. _Jesus._ Venable is only gonna push me out the door of the carriage first chance she gets.”

———-

Giving yourselves a solid hour to assemble and dress for the outside, Miss Venable waits with you in the central hall, the hexagonal fireplace still burning safely within its stony confines. Miss Venable taps her cane to herself - an undercurrent of agitation, you notice. Her complete and utter control of all things had attracted you as much as her physical attributes, so seeing that self-assurety waiver was disconcerting. But the fixed determination with which she waits, having to rely on her fortitude alone to _get the job done,_ speaks to how much she wants this, and you admire her even more for it.

Miss Venable knew the more she could box away her tingling anticipation, her hope, the urgency with which she wanted to get moving, then the easier it would be to focus on each part of this monumental task in turn. 

As the others who signalled their intent to travel alongside make their appearances, your own nerves start to tingle. It seemed to carry its own importance, this _waiting_ \- as though a mirror for Wilhemina of the day she arrived. She glanced slowly around her, remembering when frightened people stumbled down the slightly angled hallway from the last set of blast doors, into the Outpost, _her_ Outpost, their eyes just as wide and staring as she too came to terms with the arrival journey that had just happened. She had met Ms Mead that very first day, and now the same woman was to lead her _and you_ out again, together. It had not taken long to repack her bags, for they had sat under her bed untouched for 18 months, save for her jewellery and dresses, the rest, mostly _her_ things, remained just as they were the day they were assembled, packing list and all. 

You shift your weight back and forth through your hips as you try to contain your own fears. Glancing up the darkened hallway, no light to it except the shifting beams that flickered now and again from the fire next to you, you stare at the dark charcoal blast doors at the top end of the hallway. The first of many doors that will need to be passed through to leave the bowels of the Outpost, what has been your home for these twilighted months. No-one except Ms Mead and her staff had been out onto the surface since the day you arrived; suffice to say you were as scared as anyone, if not more so.

For you, the prospect wasn’t only terrifying; the dangers of being out on the surface had been oft repeated like children tales to scare you and keep you safely indoors, but you had the responsibility of keeping Miss Venable _together,_ emotionally, physically, with whatever happened on the journey and whatever the hell you found at the other end.

All of this, with barely a days rest after a traumatic bullet wound. But there was no time to think about yourself, or how the pain heightened when you clenched you abdominals as the tension mounted. The sharp jolt of pain reminded you every time and you breathe through it, concealing it as best you can from Miss Venable. You had promised to get her there, to not leave her side, and you intend to keep that promise. So you dig your fingernails into you palm and smile when she glances your way, as though nothing is wrong.

Ms Mead stood at the head of the group as the one with experience in such exits, her hands slung low on her hips as she glances to Miss Venable, her displeasure so intense it ached her bones. _Was it really necessary to bring all these people along?_ Why she had let herself be swayed by you and your sweet words whispering in her ear, Mead could not understand.

If it wouldn't cause an irreversible rift with herself and Miss Venable, she’d happily boot you out the carriage en route and be done with it. But her footing with the venerable Administrator was still shaky since the shooting; she couldn't very well make an attempt on your life now and be believed that it was an accident.

“Where’ve you been stashing these bags?” She asked, nudging one of the three thick black cargo bags with her foot. You stay close beside Miss Venable, the frequency of her needy touches increasing the closer it came to departure. It seemed strange that the brush of her fingers in the small of your back, the movement hidden from view, had so quickly become habitual, _normal._ You felt as if you were barely at the cusp of your relationship, the caresses causing deep flutterings between your legs that made you smile subversively. Now you were past the purely functional scheduled visitations, wasn’t it now that you should be getting to know her, and her you?

And yet, today it might all come to an end. You don't want to think about losing her. 

Dinah Stevens heads out of the corridor with her son behind her, a bag lofted over his shoulder of their few essential belongings put together. Neither were keen on packing the Victoriana stylised outfits, so had opted to leave the majority behind, but Andre still dumped their shared bag to the floor the first chance he got, kicking it together with the rest of the luggage.

Miss Venable herself had decided on something convenient for movement, while maintaining the regal aura of her dress with a front lacing user bust corset, long sleeves, tight shoulders to the black dress that shimmered a sort of purple-blue in the light, like the shell of a beetle. “I came prepared,” She answered, tapping her cane lightly, a formidable look in her eyes telling Mead not to press the subject further.

Emily and Timothy join the group, holding hands rather brazenly, only letting go with an awkward shifting glance to one another as they approached and saw Venables eyes fixated on them sternly. “Hey guys,” Timothy throws a nervous smile among you.

“Hey Timothy. I’m glad you decided to come,” You say honestly. They seemed to be so far quietly accepting of your intimacy with Miss Venable; there had been no whispered comments since she first made you present at her side, and yesterday had offered to help you up from the floor to her bedroom without question. There was no animosity, and that in itself was enough to register a silent understanding between you, and a hope on their part, that given they had obeyed Venable’s rules to the best of their ability up until now, you could help ease the idea to her to accept _them_ as a couple, too.

Miss Venable leans over slightly catching the handle of one of her bags, definitely the woman with the most luggage, to drag it closer to her ankles, fearful of letting them stray even a few metres from where she was. You notice something intriguing, that from under her sleeves came bright purple leather gloves, fingerless and smooth, out of step with the rest of her outfit. Your mind casts back to the first time she bid you stay in her bedroom, the deep shaded purple robe like dress she had worn on over her nightdress, the glasses. Were these glimpses of something different? A steady wearing down of her own dark exterior? You want to believe that you were somehow, healing the wounds she was carrying.

You help drag the second and third bags together for her. “They hers?” You pry softly, a few Greys arriving to complete the band of travellers, the excitement palpable. You were torn when Mallory, Coco and the Gallants had decided to stay - not that it was up to Evie and decidedly _not_ what she wanted. But after watching Miss Venable stick a surgical needle in Langdon’s neck, she balanced on the weight of probability that the woman would not let her successfully make the journey anyway, given what she called Venable’s _selfish murderous tendencies._ So if Mallory had some vision in the flames of a second saviour coming to get them, then she would go with that chance, however slim.

Mead slugs two of the heavy cargo bags over her shoulders, and you take the third, Miss Venable visibly unsettled by them being handled at all. But she couldn’t carry them herself, and there was too much history in the travelling of those bags for her to try, either.

“You should already know the answer to that.” Her eyes flick to you admonishingly as you file one by one after Ms Mead, who leads the way up the slightly inclined hallway toward the first door, her taller associate herding you all at the rear. The 8 of you trail a single file line, adrenaline starting to swarm. After the first door there is a small ante-room, then a second set of doors that open, a plain white light illuminating the circular metal room beyond. Emily squeezes her boyfriends hand, her nerves on edge, having not seen this room since the day they were unzipped from their yellow radiation suits that very first day. Except now, its all playing in reverse.

Mead hefts her thick rubber and leather full body suit from a hook on the wall, her mask and oxygen filter all combined as part of it. You remember how strange they had looked when you first saw the Guards, like apothecaries from the 1600’s, the eyes and beak-like combination strangely reminiscent of the bird masks they wore during the black death. But Mead slipped her arms into it with practised motions, then began waving you in one by one, handing out the more modern, canary-yellow radiation suits. These contemporary versions are in themselves, an odd reminder that it was 2021 and not the pre-industrial era you’d gotten used to. Like Langdon’s laptop, they seemed flung out of space, dropped into your bubble of a universe as though from another time, another place entirely.

The echoing of the crinkling plastic material fills the room loudly, causing a sudden increase of awareness in the reality of the situation. You were going outside. Leaving, Outpost 3. Already suited up, Mead set to lugging the bags together and stacking them into thick black trunks that appeared to be metal and encased in several layers, some kind of radiation proofing you determine. You had never paid much attention in physics, biology being more your thing. An interest that led to your career as a doctor and not an astrophysicist. 

Everyone paired up, helping the other step into a pair of green rubber boots and the suit that rose out of them, zipping up the rear and angling the high three-sided clear panels round the right way so you could see out. The women were struggling a little more to fold in the layers of skirt that came with their dresses, yourself included needing to tuck them inside the leg holes in a cramped inconvenient fashion. You pant heavily once inside your suit, banking on it shielding Miss Venable from the pained groans you release under your breath, putting your hands on your thighs as you lean over for a few moments, catching your breath. The Sanctuary hopefully wouldn't be too far, co-ordinates meaning little to you in terms of location. Timothy had jokingly suggested to google map it, if Langdons computer had a satellite hook up to receive emails, then why not all functions? 

You appreciate him trying to cut through everyones fear, but the laughing aches your side more, and Miss Venable needs your help. It takes two of you on either side to hold her as she climbs inside a rad suit, having to forgo the support of her cane for this. She slots it inside one leg of the suit and into the side of her rubber boot, to transport it safely with her. You see the fear flash in her eyes as she clomps a slow circle to turn around, her movement clumsy in this outfit. Though the alienness of it is the same for everyone, having to turn your entire body to look behind you instead of simply tilting your head, her gait is undoubtedly more strained without her cane. 

“Miss Venable?” You prompt, through the already misting face panels of your suit, gesturing with a wave of your arm that she can lean on it. Your usually rebuffed offers were seen as pathetic emotional sacrifice. However this time, with greater need - just as it was that very first time on the stairs, she allows herself to accept. There was a reluctance displayed as always, that in her welcoming of your gesture you could interpret it as somehow akin to feebleness, fragility; everything she is not. But you pray by now she understands your need to help and do the right thing, is only strengthened by your love for her. “If I - don't make it. I wanted to say … “

“Stop.” She shakes her head inside the hazmat suit, refusing to listen to it.

“But theres things I need to say - “ You plea.

Wilhemina ignores the slow bumbling movements of the group as the air lock style room does what it was designed to do, the door to the Outpost closing for the final time. The room bathed in an instant red glow before the opposite doors open, revealing a long, concrete corridor beyond. “I know,” She says slowly, quietening your fears before they’re said out loud. “You’re not leaving me alone, I forbid it. Do you understand me?” Her grip is strong even through the layers of protective plastic. “At the start of all this you said you would keep me going until the move. That you would _get me there_.” Wilhemina steps closer, taking your other forearm without stopping to think what she was doing or for once how it looked like. She’s latched onto both your arms now and though you feel the rest of the group staring as they slowly meander past and after Ms Mead, you hardly see them. “So get to it.” She's looking right into your eyes and despite the severity in hers, this unequivocal order is not coming from her position of authority over you, instead desperately from the woman inside.

You can feel the emotion flowing through every fibre of her being, though a complicated mass of emotion you’re not fluent in, you’re beginning to be able to read her, and that was a gift. “Yes Miss Venable.” You smile softly.

As the last in the group, the tallest Guard waits behind you and presses the door shut, the snaking line of Outpost guests stomping slowly toward a shiny silver elevator, and above, the surface.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its a long 7k. Ha, silly me.
> 
> Theres a song that goes along with this fic if anyone is interested, not that inspired it or named from it, as I only came across this band recently, but for me fits really well. And happens (by total fluke) to have the same name.
> 
> Its called Take me Home, by Eclipse. Give it a listen. :)

The world was eerily quiet from inside the carriage, dusty clouds of grey-green smog the only scenery, the loud rumble of uneven terrain beneath the juddering wheels cancelling out any other noise that might be heard. For all the tales of pus-infected cannibals and raging bezerkers coming to kill you, it seemed they had finally succumbed to the ashen darkness of nuclear winter.

You pitied them, of course. They had been people before too, only they hadn’t come by the same luck as you to stumble into a Co-Operative pick-up with an empty space, just as it was about to depart. You could have been one of those left behind; you weren’t chosen, or rich, it had simply been serendipitous.

A particularly powerful jolt makes you all bounce in uncoordinated jumps, one of the wheels dipping in and out of a pot-hole. You feel the press of Miss Venables calf against your shoulder as she is thrown around, lacking the usual steadying force of her cane.

Your suit crumples in loud plastic squeaks as you lean around to glance up at her, check in. She nods silently, her own mind preoccupied. Timothy throws you hesitant smile, your love for her blindingly obvious now he was looking right at it. But the dread among you all that something could go wrong at any moment was felt so keenly, he couldn’t summon anything but fight or flight, fear and adrenaline.

With the horses tiring, you were aware the journey must be reaching its conclusion soon, a destination hopefully in the sights of Ms Mead and the Fist from their perch up the front of the carriage. You were cramped, and every bump to the wheels sent shockwaves through your barely held-together wound. But you wouldn't complain, you were _alive._ You logical mind knew there were worse places to be than on the carriage footwell, leaning against the seat beside Miss Venable’s legs. You would kiss the side of her knee if you could, if she were to permit it.

Somehow you and Timothy had drawn the short straws, so were bunched up here on the floor, while Dinah, Andre, Emily, two Greys and Miss Venable on the bench seats. The proximity to her was an honour not yours for much longer, perhaps. Were you merely her custodian? Although a deep need had sprung from the co-dependance you had built with her, you remain unsure, _should you fight for it?_ Or respect what she had had before? You wanted to be as close to her as you could, for as long as you could.

For if the girl is alive when you get there, you know there will be no more secret touches, or this - _just the two of you,_ anymore. Outpost 3 was all you had known for 18 long months and adapting to the new surrounds of the Sanctuary without her driving force in your world could be gruelling. First things first however, was going to be getting your bullet wound properly seen to so you could actually _suffer_ the predetermined heartbreak.

Whether that heartbreak will belong to you; or should the girl _not_ be there, Miss Venable, you don't want to think about.

The pace of the carriage slows, from an energetic canter to a snorting trot, the horses struggling for air through their gas masks. Emily presses herself to the window trying to make out anything up ahead, the Greys doing the same on the other side. Miss Venable had wisely chosen to sit in the centre of the bench, despite detesting such personal closeness - even with a hazmat suits in the way. However she logically knew if you _were_ to be attacked, it would be the people on the doors that would get grabbed and yanked out, or shot by marauders.

The rocking motion you had all become accustomed to over the last few hours still feels as though its reverberating through your body, despite the carriage having stopped. Like a hangover of the motion, you feel a little wobbly as you waited for your head to stop swaying, a rush of sea sickness washing through your empty stomach. “Is this it?”

You hear the heavy thump of boots land on the untamed likely _radioactive_ grass, Mead dropping out of the drivers seat to the ground below. Your heads move slowly in unison, following the sounds of the footsteps and automatically all hitch a sharp breath as the carriage door swings open, on the off-chance it was someone else, a highwayman here to rob you like days of old.

“We’re here. Out.” The slow wave of Mead’s heavily leather clad arm summons you all clambering out of the carriage one by one, in difficult bumbling movements. None of you were any better at moving in these suits or co-ordinating such oversized vestments as anyone else, so no-one says anything about it. You were here, you’d made it. _Now to get inside_.

“It doesn’t look very big,” Emily airs in nervous concern, waiting for her boyfriend to come beside her, feeling safer having him near. She didn't want to stay out here any longer than she had to, just a small nick in the suit and she would be breathing in toxic fumes, the last 18 months instantly worthless. She, or any of you would be left out here to die, abandoned at the final hurdle.

Joining them on the irradiated ground, cradling your wounded side as you walk alongside the pair, you take in the formidable fortress. Langdon had called it impenetrable, and the impossibly high iron grey wall that rose before you, cut out of the side of the mountain certainly gave you that impression. You could only see the front, this one angular slightly curved wall - the rest of the Sanctuary hidden somewhere behind it. There were curves that jutted out every so often along the wall, as if to force hoards of roaming monsters apart, funnel them into the narrow crevices and against the sharp protrusions that painted the lower half of the wall. You didn't want to pay too close attention to whatever it was hanging from some of the spikes, loose material waving in the dusty wind. From a distance it looked morbidly like a torso, a ribcage with the remnants of clothes still flapping over it.

Timothy pointed at the long curved stone ramp that seems to lead to the only point of entrance, a jet black square that was the most likely spot to contain some kind of door. Likely built or clad in lead, the radiation protocols were going to be multitudinous, if Langdon had made it as safe as he had boasted. It glistened wetly as though it was painted in wet tar, and still shiny. “It looks like Helms Deep,” He huffed, the reference jogging your memory to the tome you had never gotten around to reading, your time before the bombs limited, and long forgotten. If it had been in the library of Outpost 3 you would have certainly found it, taken the time to devour its detailed universe and escape your own bleak one.

Instead you had found an escape of a different kind, with Miss Venable. “Probably all underground, like our Outpost,” You murmur, more to yourself than anyone in particular. “Or inside the mountain.” How was it going to be structured? Were you to be a Purple still, in this haven of humanity? Would you be put to work as a doctor again, some kind of medical facility surely here to care for the remnants of life on earth. Perhaps you would be more use being an obstetrician now, than an ICU doctor. You huff amusedly to yourself, instantly regretting it when you feel a squeeze of something ooze from your wound. You stare at the dark sky, despite your situation you’re oddly excited to see what lay ahead of you, _all of you_. If it weren't for the shadow of separation hanging over you, you would be more open about allowing yourself to feel energised by this move. You would simply have to throw yourself into work again, perhaps re-specialise. You press your hand to your flank and squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the tell-tale beads of sweat gathering on your forehead.

You register the biting winces of Miss Venable behind you, wakening you from your thoughtful reverie. Ms Mead and the Fist take a steadying hold of Miss Venable’s arms, bracing her down the singular metal step the carriage offered and waiting until she finds her balance before leaving her be. Though Mead goes up head to the front of the group, leading you toward the long slippery looking ascent to the door, the Fist stays back to fight Miss Venable’s protestations at needing help.

You wait, knowing her stubbornness will only carry her so far, especially without her cane. The wooden instrument is still slotted safely inside her rad-suit, faithfully with her but of no use in this moment. As the group start tramping slowly forwards after Ms Mead, careful not to stand more than two abreast up the absurd stone ramp for fear of falling off its sheer side, you offer your arm to her. Its as if someone has dragged the stone up out of the earth a hundred feet high, steep sides offering nothing but a straight drop down. Not a handrail in sight, Miss Venable gives in to rest her hand up on your shoulder instead, causing you to feel somewhat akin to a guide dog, permitting you to escort her up the ramp, rather than accepting help. You respect her need for independence, no-one wants to feel like they're a burden - and despite the 18 months of being the leader of Outpost 3, her coolly somewhat inhumane control of your lives absolute, out here, she's the weak link.

What had upon your arrival appeared as an unbroken plane of black metal, now the closer you tread up the ramp you can make out a door shaped rectangle cut out of it, clearly capable of opening. You glance at Timothy nervously, even through your suit you're gripping your aching waist and he knows you're suffering.

The small band of you reach the summit of the ramp, and though you’ve never been comfortable with any of Venables security team, Guards, whatever they were - you were for once glad the Fist was there to be a physical barrier between the woman you love, and the long fall waiting for her should she stumble.

“Should we knock?” Timothy huffs, trying to work out what to do.

But before you have time to ponder the same question, a hissing sound is heard, something motorised from the other side, the door shaped cut out doing just that, and opening forwards. A 2-foot thick metal door opens with a clang, and prickles run up your back as two of the Sanctuary Guards step outside, clad the same as Ms Mead and the Fist. They look you over slowly, one by one, then to each other.

“We’re the survivors of Outpost 3,” Mead introduces through the metallic tone of her gas mask, lifting her arm dead straight and dangling her Co-operative ID to the figure. You couldn't tell behind their crow-like masks if it was man or a woman, but it wasn’t important. They held your entrance to the Sanctuary in their hands in this moment and you knew how much you were shaking out of nerves and fear and adrenaline, and none could be helping your bullet wound, but equally you couldn't stop.

“Where is Michael Langdon?” The chromatic voice asked, making a show of looking amongst your faces once again. Venable tightens her jaw, glancing to you inside her suit. Would any of the group break the untold bond of culpability, admit he's dead, _murdered_ , in fact? Would they throw Venable to the ground for their own salvation?

“That can be discussed inside,” Mead persisted, jumping in with an answer before anyone had the chance. You’re glad of her bullishness, because the two figures look to one another, and gesture through the darkened doorway.

Miss Venable clenches your shoulder tighter, coming beside you instead of behind you with a serious look. The pressure was almost too much for her, you can see it shimmering in her eyes. The waiting, the grief, the loss, the lies. She didn't handle the feeling of being out of control very well, and this was the epitome of it. “Its alright, I’ve got you.” You put your plastic covered hand over hers, appreciating the reverse of how not a week ago she tapped her cane and her shoulder, ordering your hand there, publicly displaying your relationship - or her control of you at least. How proud, and petrified you had felt in that moment.

“I’m not completely incapable,” She snaps firmly, filing through the door after Emily and still leaning on you as you follow the group through the process of decontamination. “You were shot and yet you’re trying to _aide me_ , your selflessness is sickening,” Miss Venable sighs, her voice ticking with stress more than malice. You know she's not trying to be cruel, and you know you’re simply hyper sensitive at this moment because you’re about to be unzipped from your suits and blasted in detoxifying gas _and saved,_ but even at this late hour of your relationship her barbed comments cut you deeply.

One by one you crowd into the larger circular chamber, the same greying metal as in Outpost 3, the same grate, the same lights signalling you to stand on the central circle to be gassed clean of radiation. The two Guards guide you forwards, the detoxifying cloud blasting around you, and you step back, easing Venables step so she could do the same when signalled. The red lights blink white, and Andre is the first to burst into fits of adrenaline filled laughter.

_You’d made it._

A team of people swarm through the newly opened doorway, opposite to the one you just came through. You cant see much beyond it, only brilliant white, a natural light beaming through that you lift your hand to shield your eyes from. The people manoeuvre through the group and unzip your suits from behind. “Thank-you,” You murmur in awkward confusion, wobbling and stepping out of the rubber boots. Your layers of dress fall around your legs once more, and you instantly miss the feelings of having two legs and trousers that the suit gave you, rather than the cumbersome layers of victorian styling you have never quite felt at home in.

Timothy and Emily share a tight hug as soon as they are unsuited, laughing joyously at their safe arrival. He gives you a grateful smile, somewhere in the back of his mind, and everyone else’s, knowing none of them would have had this chance if Langdon’s Co-operations hadn’t been _interrupted_.

“This way,” One of the unmasked Sanctuary Guards beckons, once the team of workers mill out.

Miss Venable has a grateful hold of her cane once again, smoothing her palm over the grooves and indentations like greeting an old friend, wrapping her fingers purposefully around it, welcoming the feeling. It may not have been long without the crutch in her hand but _oh_ how she had missed the stability. To call it a physical support was to understate the importance of it; you can sense the hidden strength already fortifying her again, showing in the simplest of ways. How she holds herself, her gait, how she draws her neck long and tall soliciting a poise almost impossible to achieve considering the curve of her spine. You walk alongside, just half a step behind as she preferred, smiling nervously as she half-glances to you across her shoulder. Your fingertips brush her elbow, and you swear you see a faint hint of rose blush her pale cheeks.

The corridor is only a few hundred metres long, but the sense of anticipation is palpable. The closer you get to the end of the walkway the more you can already see stark differences to the amber twilight of Outpost 3.

But one by one as you step out of the darkness into the cavernous room, you share a gasp. You even hear Miss Venable’s breath hitch a little, though her features remain still and reserved, hiding the unfathomable way this revelation affects her. For she's not able to fully process what she can see, for her mind is sliding onto other things, other _people._ But you feel a shy touch in the small of your back, and the immediate blooming warmth encourages you to close that half step she usually prefers you keep between you while walking, and you nestle in to the curve of her forearm as you gaze around in wonder.

To call it a room would belittle the size and capacity of what is more an Atrium, hundreds of feet high with a ceiling covered in some kind of creeping plant, giving the roof a living, natural feel. Movement darts about above your head, and though its not truly the sky, to you its as close as the real thing, your cave like existence up until now making this space truly remarkable.

“Is that a bird?” You whisper, another fluttering movement joining it - and you grin so broadly at the simple beauty of nature thriving here you cant help but laugh. Your joy is short lived however, when the laughing vibration of your abdominals causes a pull, and then a snap. Dinah points to the roof and the small flock of chirruping birds dancing in the air, and you glance up as well, pressing your hand to the wound training your features steady. _It was bleeding._

Andre’s open mouth gawking sums up your own emotions. “Oh my God can you believe this place?” But your eyes have already moved from the spectacle above your heads to the layout of the forecourt right around you. It was a wide space, a faux-grass area to your right and a path that led forwards into a seating area, before it looped to the right and disappeared off at the end round a corner leading who knows where.

But then your eyes pick up the furniture. The people. They were smiling and chatting, walking along the path arms looped together with an ease that took you a moment to understand. _Their clothes_. Jeans and tee’s of various modern styles, women in blouses and baristas in functional shoes and long aprons, work shirts on and biros tucked behind their ears to take a fresh order.

Other guests sat at square tables, stylish bamboo seating and all the requisite trappings of a cafe right down to the sugar shakers and thin wooden coffee stirrers in pots on each table. Farther inside the decor changed to reflect more of a swanky LA bar, with what seemed to be cocktail waitresses clearing tables and wiping them down.

“We survived the adversity because we stayed strong, _together_.” Dinah hugged her sons arm, and for once he wasn’t rolling his eyes at her, but sharing this moment of taking it all in, awe and excitement abound.

The two Sanctuary Guards signal for you to wait at the intersection of the path, as they continue on to meet a deep navy-blue suited young man with messy blonde curls, who is coming in your direction. He talks with them secretively, keeping his voice low and flicking his eyes you way every so often. After doing an awkward pat on the back to one if the Guards - a gesture apparently too friendly as the Guard glares andthe suited man theatrically attempts to laugh it off, the Guards then stalk off with the same aggressive soldier like steps you recognise from Meads team.

The rules of social etiquette were a little lost on on Kyle, all this time yet still learning. He approaches with a lumbering sort of gait, as though the mechanics of movement were a struggle to remember. “Welcome to the Sanctuary,” He smiles, and tucks his hands neatly at his waist.

Miss Venable lets her arm slowly fall from around your back, and takes a proud step forwards to present herself at the head of the group. “I am Wilhemina Venable. The Administrator of Outpost 3.” She presses her purple-gloved hands atop her cane, distinctly _not_ offering one to shake, the pad of her thumb smoothing along the beak of the crows head, twitching while reassuring.

He claps his hands and gives a nod, gesturing for you all to follow. “Kyle. Come this way. How many of there are you?”

Its a slow movement, considering you’re all behind Miss Venable and theres such tension to her right now you know the fear is impacting her pain. Aside from that, you felt like toddlers in a new world you had to once again relearn, rediscover. “8, were chosen. A few remained behind,” Miss Venable replies. None of you speak up to correct her.

“You should all count yourselves very lucky. Not everyone is so fortunate. Many of the other facilities were over-run before Langdon and this team could make the necessary assessments and recommendations,” He explains as you go, navigating the ginormous space with ease. “Where is, Michael Langdon? He didn't travel with you?” Kyle asks over his shoulder as you follow, trying not to stare at the simple _normalcy_ of life and how it has been preserved here.

“Unfortunately Mr Langdon did not successfully make the return journey,” Miss Venable says, coolly distant from her past actions, distracted momentarily when a Guest carrying a slice of cake walks past you towards a free table. Andre blinks in amazement at the food offering, and you swear you can almost hear his stomach growl wantonly.

“We were attacked,” Ms Mead interjects, a mock expression of reluctant acceptance at the _‘tragedy'_ that had befallen you. “Terrible bloody mess.”

“I see.” He stops in his track and rubs his palm across his mouth and chin thoughtfully, the news more meaningful than just being another death. Isn't that news the thing he had been waiting to hear? He was meant to report it; he remembers the instruction, but not whom the female voice belonged to.

Shock and horror at such a tragic loss of the leading member of the Co-operative _should_ on the surface of it, be devastating him, but Kyle wasn’t always sure which emotion he should be feeling or how to display it. So he simply pauses, then smiles and shrugs again. “Well, the savagery of whats left of those diseased souls on the surface cant be taken lightly, for sure. I shall report it to the Board of Visionaries as soon as I’m through with your induction,” He continued with a bright smile, as if the whole thing could be dismissed as unimportant. “On with the tour? We call this the Auricle. Sounds a bit cheesy really.”

You stare at his odd demeanour, your bewilderment mirrored in Miss Venable’s features as she turns to you with a questioning expression. The Sanctuary was already presenting more questions than answers, more trouble than organisation. This boy was _not_ Co-operative, just a messenger of sorts, master of welcoming ceremonies, clearly enjoying his cabin-crew style guide of the place. He didn't act as though he knew who Miss Venable was or the severity of what she was reporting.

“This place is huge …,” One of the Greys says awe-struck behind you.

“I cant believe how light it is in here,” The other replies.

Kyle stumbles to a stop and turns putting his hands on his hips. “I’m sorry I have to ask - were you having some sort of, masquerade party before you left?” The group pause behind you and Miss Venable at the mouth of the _cafe - come - bar_ area, the vast difference from your own Outpost like that of a gaping chasm, that you can’t help but feel shell shocked by everything you’re seeing. If it weren't for the persistent warmth gathering under your bodice you know to be blood, you would be worrying for the emotional state of your fellow Outpost 3 residents. Talk about PTSD; hitting a semblance of the ‘real world’ again could crack even the perfect pair of optimists of Timothy and Emily, if they weren't careful.

Miss Venable raps her cane, feeling affronted and judged by someone who she would not have ever given the time of day _before_ the bombs, and certainly not since. “What is that supposed to mean?” She demands with wide eyed contempt. You feel the pads of her fingers press firmer into your back, almost clenching themselves into the layers of dress at your waist, channelling her defensive aggression into this hidden movement.

Kyle waves his had loosely at all of you. “Well, your clothes.” He huffs a small smirk.

For all his staring, Andre hadn’t even seen it. “You mean I didn't have to wear this shit this _whole time_?” He caws in bewilderment. Miss Venable presses her eyes shut depressing her distaste.

“Measures were taken - “ Miss Venable begins, her jaw set as she growls at Andre. “To teach you all some _semblance_ of decorum, order.” The very foundations of her vision were being picked apart, dismissed as frivolous and unnecessary buy people who once quaked at the sound of her cane.

Timothy didn't understand Miss Venable’s divisive decision making, but nor did he have to. He’d come to appreciate the way it made him feel like a gentleman, how Miss Venable might have been a cruel and borderline sadistic leader, but be couldn't claim not to be converted to the style. They had been stripped of their old lives, cell phones and football practice, he’d been allowed to be someone _new._ He checks himself out and then his girl with a charming grin. “I dunno. Its kind of grown on me.”

“You look very handsome,” Emily smiles, patting the lapel of his plum dress jacket.

Kyle put his hands on his hips with a childish sort of laugh. “Well, here you’re free to dress how you please.”

He got a little unnerved by Miss Venable’s unblinking and burning expression. “That much is decidedly obvious,” She burns.

He didn't understand, none of you did.

He rubs his palms together in a fidgeting manner, then clears his throat. “Anyway, we call this Auricle. You can sit in the cafe there, if you’re part of the _Elite_ of course. Most people prefer to sit “outside” though, as we say here.” The Purples among you shared a glance, wondering if your standing still meant the same as it had in Outpost 3. Were you still the Elite? _The Worthy?_ Or did the Sanctuary have other ways to determine your status? There certainly weren't any purple or grey clad divisions that you could obviously discern from the people around. “There are Baristas on until I think, 6pm? They're just clearing up now.”

Miss Venable had stopped listening, there were enough people here that she was losing track of their faces, those in her line of sight, trying to take time to study each of them. _Would she look different? Changed her hair, her style?_ All the clothes they had packed had been stuffed under Venable’s bed for 18 months so she didn't have any of her things. Miss Venable’s fingers clench and unclench repeatedly on her cane, her movements so hard you wonder whether the birds head will be soon squeezed out of shape, the silver heated so much it softens and melts, is remodelled the way Venable tried to with you.

Kyle continues back on his amble through to the cafe as he talks. “The place was designed with a sort of, tiered living in mind. So the canteen, the bar, and so on are all here on the ground floor, we have a recreational park, gym, a small cinema. Living accommodation is comprised of floors 2 through 5; The Founders naturally have the most space, nearly half a floor each.” He gestures up to your left where tracing an undulating line that follows the interior shape of the mountain, there is a wall of frosted glass, a smooth half moon of windows the height of a small apartment block. Its less boxy and conventional in its design, instead using the mountains curvature to its advantage in an ultra modern way that spookily reminds Miss Venable of the interior of Kineros Robotics. “Larger suites for Elite members and higher ranked officials of the Co-operative - yourself included Miss Venable. I’m sure you will be honoured for your successful work at Outpost 3 with suitably sized living quarters, servants, so on,” Kyle carries on, his easy offering of personal waiting staff stalling Wilhemina for a moment, giving your waist a squeeze. She envisions the two of you being brought your morning coffee in the peace of a living room, not ones to join the Sanctuary public for breakfast, instead spending it together before you leave for work. She sees you tired in the bath, the days exhaustion washing away with the rub of her sponge on your shoulders, sitting alongside the bath as she used to with _her._ Could she forgive herself this reverie? You glance up to her, wondering what she's thinking. “The smaller shared accommodations for everyone else, such as myself, are on the floors above.” He points right up high with a small laugh. “Its a lot of stairs.”

Miss Venable ignores him still, tired of what remains of her metal energies. So many long months thinking about _her_ , then months after that refusing to think about her at all. Now having survived the time alone, Langdon and his sadistic humiliations, all to make it here, on the off-chance, the smallest of hopes she was alive. But _you_ were in her arm, now. Just as comfortable, and content there. You were different, certainly, you would never be her, you could never recreate a past relationship and perhaps she had been wrong to try and push you to. _Who did she want anymore? What was she really searching for?_

Wilhemina feels the warm press of your body against her side, and puts the thoughts away for later. Let the boy finish his tour, find where you’ll… _both?_ be sleeping. Await her luggage to be brought in. Then see. Even if _she_ is here, Wilhemina might not find her for a day or so, find someone to ask, talk to whomever was in charge for access to personnel files. She couldn't simply wander the levels in hopes of bumping into her. “The 6th floor is the management suite, where the Founders and Visionaries assemble, and decisions are made. But you don't need to worry about any of that.”He sees his audience have less interest in this, than the obvious incredulous staring at the cake offerings behind the counter of the cafe. “Do you guys want to see the canteen?” He makes little finger arrows and points to a double door off to his right. “Thursday is pasta day - “

An echoing crash interrupts him, everyones heads turning to the sound of someone dropping a tray of mugs and glasses. You can vaguely make it out. At the far end of the Auricle theres someone shoving their chair back and raving angrily at the waitress, brushing shards of china from his trousers as he does so.

“Sorry about that. You’d have thought after a year and a half of practice they’d be capable of carrying a few cups on a tray. Right?” Kyle tries to use some awkwardly placed humour to skim quickly past the embarrassing incident. He didn't know what standards Miss Venable was used to upholding, each Outpost of people that arrived seemed to have developed as their own little enclave. He gestures to his right again, and Miss Venable steps after him, the flick of her cane forward to lean on as usual, and you find your rhythm beside her. 

A voice rings out that stills you. “Mina!” Her name is shrieked from somewhere across the Auricle, but instead turning to the sound you look to Miss Venable, her whole body freezing. Her head snaps around, eyes widening. _Mina. Wilhemina. Miss Venable._ Your heart starts to pound and your breath hovers emptily in your chest, unable to breathe. _“MINA_! _”_ The voice screams louder, and you’re forced to follow the voice this time and like the rest of the group, you watch the figure racing towards you.

Miss Venable can’t move. For a moment you feel her starting to shake but then her arm slips away from you, she's gone from your side leaving only an impression in the rumples of your dress, as she takes an unsteady step forward from the group. _Cane then foot, cane then foot,_ the closer the girl runs the more hurried Miss Venable becomes. “Sweetheart…?” She breathes to herself, barely heard above the heavy thumping of her heart.

Emily wanders over to you, watching the scene unfold as equally befuddled as the rest. “Who…is Mina?” She whispers quietly.

You heart sinks, while soaring for her and everything she has wanted coming true, for you, its crashing and splintering just like those coffee mugs. “Miss Venable,” You reply, your voice low, empty, _alone_.

“And who is _that?”_ Timothy points, standing along side you.

She was alive. Clearly, alive, and right here and you’re happy for them, _you want Miss Venable to be happy._ You sniff and clear your throat, hugging your arms around your waist, supporting the bullet wound, the bullet you took _for her._ “Her girlfriend.” You repress your emotions as best you can. You don't want to talk about this here, you don't want to talk about it in general.

Wilhemina is almost jogging as she flings herself forwards, each step bringing her closer. “Its you …,” She chokes, eyes starting to wet and brim with tears as the details and lines of her girlfriend come clearer, she can make out now _for certain_ , its her. “Sweetheart!” Wilhemina screams, panting unable to propel herself any faster, cursing her cane for the first time in her life. “Come to me!” Her lack of mobility constrains her to a stop and instead waves the girl to her, leaning heavily on the silver birds head as she catches her breath, her hand quivering over her mouth as the pair of them collide, the momentum causing Wilhemina to stumble back, flinging her arm around her girlfriend and clutching onto her as tightly as she ever has in her life. “You’re alive! You’re really … its really you - “ Her words struggle out of her throat through the gasps she needs to take just to keep breathing; the girl nodding desperately, her hands tracing around Mina’s hips and up her back knowing just where to stop before the curve starts, over her shoulders and pulls Miss Venable to her tightly.

“I’m sorry I’m so sorry Mina I shouldn’t have gone back for the bag I’m sorry its all my fault - “ She sobbed into Miss Venable’s shoulder, tucking herself around her girlfriend lovingly.

Miss Venable stroked the girls tight plait and held onto her, tears breaking from her own eyes to skim down her cheeks. “No no sweetheart its fine its not your fault, nothing is your fault - “

“I love you,” She whimpers through her tears and kisses the side of Miss Venable’s neck, kissing around to her cheek, her jaw, her lips and Miss Venable greets the softness just as hungrily, just wanting _needing_ to feel her, touch her kiss her, have all of her the know that she's real. She cups Miss Venable’s cheeks and kissing her hard, Mina wrapping the girls plait around her hand and gripping it tightly in her first as if she needs to hold onto this, this feeling this moment, this girl thats hers and been kept away from her for so long she might be just dreaming the whole thing so she holds onto it, a lifeline of something real, as though the salty kisses are not enough. “Fuck I’ve missed you so much -“ The girl breaks for breath, muttering aching words against Wilhemina’s lips.

The two rest and just stare in disbelief at one another, Mina simply brushing her lips over the girls features, her cheekbone, her forehead, encouraging her to lean her head to her chest as she always did. “I’ve missed you too my Darling,” She whispers, then sniffs and tries to swallow down her bleeding emotions, releasing her plait to stroke her neck and tilt her chin up. “Look at me, look at me let me see you -“ She murmurs, needing to see deep into her eyes, those bright gentle blue orbs, so forgiving, so accepting and _willing._ “You’re so beautiful …,” The simple compliment means more than she could say, hearing Mina, _her Mina_ say it again. Her cheeks blush and she wipes the back of her hand under her nose.

“You’ve changed your hair,” She laughs, nodding slowly and taking in the new look. “I like it.”

Miss Venable gathers herself a little, becoming aware of their public setting, the on-lookers. “I thought you were dead - “ She confesses sadly, tenderly smoothing her thumb across the girls cheek and cleaning it of tears, months worth of love and loss engulfing them both.

“They didn't tell you?” She sniffs and takes Mina’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Its been so long, her rules and preferences and protocols are out the window right now, and its so _freeing._ “I was in Outpost 2 I sent word - “

Miss Venable cant believe it. She's been in Outpost 2 with Mutt and Jeff and not one bird got to them with news? They knew how essential she was, Miss Venable had risked everything to come out to her bosses, beg the girl a place at her side, save her life from the Apocalypse and yet their separation was so easily and cruelly done. “This whole time?” Miss Venable says in shock. “I-I never received it. We had no communications from anyone after the first _month_.”

She curls around Venable and hugs into her again, closing her eyes and trying to remember that day they had been so organised, ready to go, bags packed and holding hands up the stairs helping her onto the helicopter, only for that last goodbye not to have happened. They were wrenched apart, and for Mina to think her dead? Is that worse to believe your loved one gone forever, or to know they're far away and unreachable? Both were terrible, and unchangeable, and so much about the Sanctuary needed to be explained to Mina, but not now.“I’m so sorry,” She murmurs, wanting to kneel right here caring not for where the fuck she was, but Miss Venable sensed it and immediately hooks her arm under the girls shoulder and stops her, a gentle look.

Instead she nods, looking past Miss Venable for the first time to those she brought with her, the people that were meant to have been her companions and friends the last 18 months. She smiles to you, to Emily, Timothy and Dinah and Andre not knowing you not knowing any of you, but wanting to. She looks back to Miss Venable her smile growing happily, really feeling happy for the first time in _ever._ “I can’t believe you’re really here,”

Miss Venable holds her hand still, her left remaining on her cane as required, now more than normal. “It shouldn’t have taken me so long. If I’d known you were alive sweetheart I would have - “

She shakes her head to quieten her guilt. “When I heard Langdon was going to Outpost 3 I thought, I hoped you’d make it here but I tried not to think about it just in case you didn't or if something happened - “ She hurries, determined to not let Mina blame herself. She wasn’t to know, if the pigeon never got there then how would she? Langdon had insisted he would pass the message on, but it seems even that didn't happen.

“I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere, never again - “ Miss Venable says it for herself as much as for her girl, the woman she loves more than anything. They need to hear it, both of them crave that reality they had dreamed of together long ago in Miss Venables apartment. Of order and civility and living out the Apocalypse together as an open, out couple, for the first time in their lives. Fearless and shameless about who they loved, and how they loved one another.

Andre stares in gaping awe, the group of you Purples and Greys far enough away that she couldn't immediately overhear, and wouldn't anyway for how enveloped she was, _rightly so_.“…no way,” He huffs, shaking his head. Such a thing he would never have put money on. Miss Venable having a heart.

You’re unable to say anything, only stare. Bending slightly over to crease your flank and stem the wound, whatever is happening that you’ve been ignoring. Is this what heartbreak feels like? Literal injury worsening due to your emotional state? You know objectively that psychological distress can impact physical wounds but logically its more of a coincidence, a combination of botched self surgery and using incorrect unsterilised equipment.

“What about you?” Timothy murmurs, tucking his hands in his pockets as he gives them privacy enough by turning away, moving his glance to you.

You just shake your head. “Its not up to me.” He gives you a sad smile, placing a supportive hand up on your shoulder, nodding in quiet respect. You were stepping aside, despite the bullet, the coming out, the way you’d helped her for months weaning off her meds, the love you gave her that no-one could understand. You’d known this whole time and had still given her your heart.

Doubling over you groan and about fall to one knee, Timothy reacts with quick reflexes and slotting his arm under yours to catch you before you hit your knee too hard. _Fuck, this pain._ “Are you alright?” Emily asks worriedly, touching her hand to your back, looking anxiously to the Administrator you’ve all known as the ultimate and only person to fix and sort everything.“Miss Venable - !” She calls, but you shake your head at her urgently.

“No - don’t.” You wave your hand telling her to stop, grabbing on to Timothy to haul yourself back to your feet, looking down and seeing the one thing you didn't want to see - crimson red staining your hand. It was bleeding, enough it was soaking right through the bandage and now your layers of dress. That was _a lot_. “Don’t say anything,” You pant, blinking away the tears of pain. You watch Miss Venable, _your Miss Venable,_ embracing her lover with nary a backward glance, so happy and in love, and you choke back your own tears from falling, rubbing the heel of your hand across your eyes.

“But you’re bleeding -“ Emily insists.

Wetting your tongue around your lips, you just shake your head. “Let her be happy.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for hanging on until the end with me, with our characters! I had so many ways of ending this, and things I could still do, wanted to explore and study the ins and outs of their reunion, first times back together and how the doctor reader navigates needing to distance herself from Miss Venable and her girlfriend. But in the end I decided I could show everything I needed to this way, as well as allude to past and future goings on of their lives in the Sanctuary, and hopefully, will satisfy everyones including my own, desires to see the loose ends tied up.

Epilogue \- 6 months later. 

The medical wing has a busy, bustling movement to the place you had missed from your previous life. Where Outpost 3 had always been so still, even eerily so, the Sanctuary is full of life and vibrancy. One of the nursing team waits patiently beside you with a clipboard, making notes as you talk. You’re standing at the foot of the bed of a young patient with a sprained ankle, nothing interesting. He’d fallen down the stairs in his haste, not wanting to be late to work duties. You had come to learn the rules here were just as strict as Miss Venable’s, but more multitudinous and creative in their punishments. So a sprained ankle became the preferable option over clocking in late and losing privileges like your bed for the night. “You’ll be fine. Take a day to rest here, do some physical therapy in the morning and you can go back to work after that. I’ll write you a note.” You tap the end of the bed giving him a look. You know you’re being overly lenient, but you want to be kind where you can. The system didn't need to be so rigid.

“Thanks, Doctor Carter.” He smiles gratefully. Everyone told him to come to you, that you weren’t like the other doctors, not swallowed up by the Co-operatives propaganda like some of the others. That you would give a sick note for slightly tenuous reasons; _the right,_ reasons.

“Anytime,” You reply, and move on down the row of beds, passing a few empty ones before the nurse next to you tugs your arm making you stop and turn.

“Its just a sprained ankle,” She pipes up.

“Hmm?” You pretend to not know recognise what she's intimating.

She spins the clipboard around in her hand tapping her biro on the paperwork, showing you the other papers underneath of previous similar injuries he had suspiciously come in with. “Its just a sprained ankle. They don’t usually prescribe physical therapy. Just give him some painkillers and send him back to work.”

You tuck your hands into the pockets of your white lab coat. “Throwing pain killers at people isn't always the answer.” You cast your eyes over her shoulder back to the boy resting his head back on the pillows, able to close his eyes and really rest for probably the first time in a while. “Trust me I’ve seen where it can get you.” You could never forget the months of twisting pain Miss Venable had suffered through, even with your help and regime to keep her well, enough to maintain doing her job at least.

She shrugs, dropping the leafs of paper back down on the clipboard. “Fine. You’re the doctor.”

Amidst the low hum of noise in the medical wing, one sound pierces through it, and your head snaps immediately around. _The tap of a cane._ You beam a smile, then drop it again professionally. Miss Venable is waiting in the entranceway, hands settled in front of her on her cane as beautiful and poised as she ever was. Though she had let her hair down in to a long ponytail again, she still cuts a sharp outline and is just as fierce.

“Excuse me.” You make your polite exit from the nurses conversation, instinctively drawing yourself a little straighter, taller, shoulders pulling themselves back as you walk towards her. She still holds a powerful force in your life, even now. 6 months was only a third of the time you had lived with her in the Outpost, though your relationship, whatever it had been, had itself been 6 months long. You had been just as long with her, as now without her.

“Miss Venable.” You dip your gaze a little as you greet her, tucking your hands professionally in front of you. Being able to look the part helps overcome your nerves a little, as you always feel that twinge of submission in her presence, even in your own workplace. You glance to her side, and her girlfriend sitting achily in one of the waiting room chairs. Her hands brace either side of her hips and swollen belly. “Hey Jenna,” You greet her in a friendly manner.

Miss Venable looks around the medical facility you call home with disdain, an uncomfortable agitation about her. People gave her sideways glances as they passed, and she glared at each of them. “She wanted to come and see you.” She explains, as though this trip was not to her pleasure.

Jenna shifts her hips forward on the chair trying to find a position that doesn’t make her back feel like its splitting apart. “I haven't felt it move for a few hours,” She says, placing her hand on top of the rounded pregnant belly she was carrying around with her these days. 8 months gone and 2 more to go.

“I told her she was being too protective.” She fixes her jaw, unable to understand the hormonal pull that came with being pregnant, even as a surrogate. The bigger her girlfriends stomach swelled, the more difficult she was finding it. Had you arrived just 2 or 3 months earlier then she would not have been put through this. Not been… _alone._ Miss Venable struggled with her failures staring at her in the face every morning, growing _every day_. All the healthy, single women had been forced into the Co-operatives ReBirth programme, carrying the babies of the Visionaries, Founders, top scientists that had gotten recruited and those with ‘perfect genetics’. All the artificial womb trials continue to fail, and you suspect that humankind would have to at some point, accept the limit of its ability. That you cant all play God. Create life and grow it in a lab. Nothing could recreate the exact natural balance the body could provide.

Jenna sighs, just as troubled at her situation as Miss Venable was. If she had only been here, she would never have been put through this. “I know its not mine, I’m just the _incubator_. I know that. But I’m the only one can that feel these things.”

You shake your head, glancing quick behind you. Should anyone see them here, and not upstairs- “I’m not part of that programme. You know I’ve refused to work on it,” You reply in hushed secretive tones, stepping closer to them not to be overheard. “I can’t help you Jen -“

“Please.” She whines, gesturing emotionally. “I don't want to go to them. They just treat me like a lab rat. They make me get undressed and basically walk naked to the exam table, its humiliating and awful.”

You shift your weight through your hips. You _want_ to help, of course you do. Miss Venable was - well, _Miss Venable._ Time didn’t diminish your love for her, or how she could cause a flutter in your chest at just a slight upturn in the corner of her lips. “I’m not an obstetrician - “ You try pathetically to protest, knowing how much trouble you could get yourself into. More than missing a nights sleep like that canteen worker.

Miss Venable bunches her lips, her hawk like eyes fixing and pressing you to _do what she wants._ “Do I have to order you?” The corner of her eyebrow quirks just slightly, and you let out a small laugh. This woman.

 _“Fine,”_ You concede, gesturing across the waiting room. “Bay one. And pull the curtain round I’ll be back with the sonogram.”

Miss Venable offers her arm to the girl to help her up, their role reversal humorous to oversee, but spoke to their love as much as anything could. Miss Venable had put her foot down from that very first meeting. She had been hauled in front of the Board on your first day and told to explain herself, a long table of silver masked Co-operative leaders staring facelessly back at her. _Where is Michael Langdon? What about the rest of your Outpost? What truth is there to these emails Langdon sent about your time in Outpost 3? Was she truly making up her own rules? Why was she here if he had marked her as unsuitable?_

There had been talk of a trial. But there were enough of you still to speak up on her behalf, giving only a limited truth of what had happened of course, to clear her name. Luckily your position as a doctor, plus Timothy and Emily’s more elevated position in the Sanctuary - having been genetically _chosen to survive_ , were enough testimony to evade the whiff of foul play. Though some still had their doubts about what really happened, Miss Venable was cleared of suspicion of any wrong doing.

In amongst all this, Miss Venable had drawn a line in the sand. Jenna said it was much like she had done before the bombs. _If you want me to continue to work for you, she's my condition_. And like that, she had been taken off work duties, moved into Venable’s much larger and private quarters, compared to her shared fifth floor ones, and allowed greater freedom. But despite this, neither of you could help the situation that had already been growing in her belly the day you arrived.

As you unplug the mobile ultrasound machine from the wall, your nurse is suddenly directly behind you, and in your way. “You cant see them here,” She whispers with direct, harsh intent.

You wind the wire up onto the stand and start wheeling the machine down the ward. “Like you’ve already said, I’m the doctor on duty today.”

“Send them upstairs before you get us both in trouble!” She follows hurriedly, urgently trying to sway your mind.

“You wont get in trouble. Just stay out of the way.” You tell her. This is Miss Venable. It didn't matter what the Co-operative want you to do. You love her. And she loves Jenna. You’re approaching the end of the bay where Wilhemina is sliding the pale yellow curtain around the bed for privacy, Jenna settling herself on top of the bedsheets.

The nurse grabs a hold of the machine childishly, making you wait. “Isn’t that that Venable woman? The one from your Outpost?”

“Yes,” You sigh, turning back to her.

“And thats the girlfriend? I’ve heard the girls from labs talking about them,” She gossips. _So this is what she really wanted._

“Yeah, what’ve they been saying?” You try not to sound interested in the frivolous gossip, but part of you wants to know whats going around, to ensure there was nothing too cruel or untrue circulating that could either get back to Miss Venable, or hurt her should she hear of it.

“That even when they're doing medicals she wont leave the room. And that the girlfriend refuses to take that _dog collar_ off,” She snorts, mean and lacking in the empathy she should be displaying as a nurse. No-one was asking her to understand, just to respect and accept their life choices. “Did she really give it to her? Like, she arrived and after one day she's picked a random servant and taken her to bed.”

You yank the sonogram from her hands with a stern expression. This was ridiculous. “They knew each there before the bombs. Okay?” You tell her, breaking the rule of telling anyone _anything_ , but this truth was better than the idea Venable ‘grabs random servants’ or bribes them into her bed, or whatever other pernicious rumours were circulating. “They were in a relationship for years and were accidentally separated into different Outposts.”

“…really?” She lilts her head, surprised by your information.

“Yes. Now unless you want the _ReBirthers_ to see you I suggest you get busy with some other duties, while I see to them.” You snap, wheeling the machine away with an authoritative way about you.

“Yes Dr Carter.” She parrots, remaining on the spot until you disappear behind the curtain.

Miss Venable tenses for a second as the curtain flings aside, her hand pressing immediately to her girlfriends arm possessively, her shoulders only relaxing once she sees its you. “That nurse does not respect you,” She scoffs. The idea of you running a whole medical wing is still amusing to her, considering how she seen you kneel and mewl in whimper under her hands. “You should do something about that.”

“What do you suggest I do, Miss Venable?” You huff quietly, switching the machine on and sitting beside the girl, yanking out the ultrasound probe from its holder waiting for it all the blink to life. “Could you lift your top a little?” You ask gently, tucking the sheet of towelled paper into the front of her jeans to stop the gel going everywhere.

“You’d probably like to cane her into submission. Right Mina?” Jenna laughs looking up at her girlfriend with a cheeky grin, shifting her flower-patterned t-shirt up over her bump, glad of the trust Miss Venable had with you, that you would risk breaking the rules for her. 

“No sweetheart I only cane you,” She replies quietly, brushing her fingers down the girls cheek and resting her hand on her shoulder. Wilhemina’s fingers squeeze subtly, nails pricking into her skin, and Jenna instantly drops the playful attitude. “You know that.”

You quieten, a prickling heat rising up your neck hearing her say that. “Sorry Miss Venable, it was silly of me to say.” Jenna berates herself through the apology. She felt at ease with you, being out about it. She _revelled_ in that feeling, it felt amazing to be able to have a friend they both could share their lives honestly with. You look at one another, and for just a moment you enjoy sharing this understanding of what being in Miss Venable’s affections meant.

You’re not sure how much Miss Venable has told her, its not your place to probe the subject, for being part of her life, _their life_ , at all, was more precious to you than your own selfish desires.

“Lets see what this baby is doing,” You cut through the awkward atmosphere with the loud squirting of ultrasound gel onto the head of the probe, and place it around her navel. You all watch the picture flicker onto the black and white screen. Even Mina, who had stoically ignored every ultrasound until today. It wasn’t Jennas baby, or hers. _Or theirs._ It was just a symbol of her failure to protect the woman she loved from these Co-operative cult-like ideas of propagating the earth once more.

Despite how they had strapped her down against her will, put her out with anaesthetic and used long thin clinical instruments to guide the tiny embryo into her womb, Jenna caught herself smiling. You glide the probe here and there, seeing the heart beating strongly, the small wiggle of the baby’s limbs. “All good.” You turn to her, announcing the reassuring news. “Blood flow through the cord is good. Theres the heartbeat again. The head, this is the outline of the face here, see the nose?”

She's nodding in awe at the grainy picture. Miss Venable glances down at the girl, the squeeze on her shoulder gentle and tender now. She never would have allowed this to happen, were she to have been here. But seeing the natural joy on her girlfriends face, ignites soft musings of their future, too.

Is this something, they could do _together,_ one day? Would they ever be accepted that way, given the opportunity? Would she _want_ that? Mina had never seen herself as maternal; before the bombs she could have stretched to a cat, _perhaps_ , if Jenna had insisted. This was so far from her ideals of what a relationship was, what perfection they had together it was too unbelievable to even contemplate.

“Thanks Claire,” Jenna visibly relaxes, while you tear another piece of towelled paper for her to wipe her belly clean of gooey gel.

“Not a problem.” You tidy the probe away and switch the machine off, getting up from the bed and cleaning the probe simultaneously. As you swing the curtain back and walkthe machine out, Miss Venable follows you.

A few beds down the ward, you feel her hand on your elbow. “Wait.” Miss Venable sucks her lips in tightly, wiping her finger across her forehead in nervous anxiety. You frown softly, this was unusual for her, such emotions to be freely shown and not tucked away behind the stern public facade. But you knew when it came to Jenna she was a lioness, protective and careful and loving, and that watching her go through this was hard on her. “You’re certain. Everything is well with ...”

“With the pregnancy? Yes. From what I saw -"

"It's not the _baby_ I'm concerned about," Miss Venable snaps quickly and cruelly. 

You clear your throat, coming to understand. The ReBirthers probably only liked to concern themselves with the babies health, and not hers. But for Miss Venable, her girlfriend was her priority. "Jenna’s healthy. She's doing well, her body is carrying comfortably. I'm sure everything is okay.” You hang your hand in your coat pocket, trying to show confidence. Truly, the whole idea of the Co-operatives programme scared you a little.

Was there more you didn't know? Was your unwelcome decision to refuse to work on the ReBirth programme the right one? Perhaps, if you were up there you could do more to help. You’d have information or insider knowledge that could, ease her mind. Find out whose baby it is. What the Co-operative planned to do next. Would your name be called up? They had gladly assured you after your surgery, and the corresponding 8 week recovery period, that the bullet had not infiltrated or affected your reproductive organs. Or Miss Venables? Was there more you should be doing to protect her? 

“And she could, do it again?” Her gloved hands squeeze the head of her cane, a gesture your eyes notice by instinct.

“What do you mean?” You’re confused. “Get pregnant again? Physically, theres no reason why not. Women are designed to have multiple pregnancies from an evolutionary standpoint. But they wont do it now you’re here. She’s your girlfriend, she has status now,” You reassure her, and set off with the ultrasound machine again to park it back into its station, smiling at the canteen guy on your way past his bed.

“Claire,” Miss Venable barks, the firmness to her voice halting your steps as though you hit a wall. She’s right behind you and as you turn, you’re forced to take a step back because her proximity is too close, _too intimate_ and its awkward. You’re at work, the Sanctuary doesn’t belong to Miss Venable as the Outpost did. “Come over for a drink. Tonight,” Miss Venable offers, her jaw tightening and staring at you as her hands fidget on her cane. Theres so much she wants to say.

You laugh awkwardly, staring away avoidant of the permanent intensity in her eyes. “I’m not sure if I should - “

Jenna is right back there on the bed, and you cant help but flick your eyes in her direction even though you’re more than far enough away not to be heard. You love this woman and she's cornering you in your workplace. You scratch your fingers through your hair uncomfortably

“Call it - “ She cuts in, stopping your excuses. “…A thank you for, indulging her anxieties.” Her cane taps the floor lightly. Miss Venable had handled Jenna’s burdensome anxieties over the years, as Jenna had carried Mina’s _own_ needs. They had worked on them together; each the perfect antidote to the other. Jenna knew how Miss Venable’s rules _had helped_ her, giving up the worry and control of her day-to-day to Mina. But it had been a long 18 months without Miss Venable’s guiding hand to keep her in check. Her worries were increasing day by day, not to mention the reality of giving birth soon and what they could do to her. Miss Venable’s inability to control what was happening to the woman she loves, or the work the Co-operative were coercing her into doing was starting to jolt the pain back to life that you had fixed. Yes, she had Jenna back, and equally, her stockpile of medication. However the physical limitations to what Miss Venable could do with her girlfriend now, what Jenna could endure, was severely restricted with the pregnancy. Miss Venable had so far resisted the pain pills that sat once more under the bed, but the temptation was itching. She needed something to feel in control, _someone._ “My treat.” You don't want to see it, but theres a wicked, mischievous glint in her eye as she tilts her head, stepping a touch closer.

You fold your arms loosely, defensively, then drop them at your sides again puffing a breath, even the idea of it exciting the nerve endings between your legs, that you’ve been caring for with just your racing thoughts and dexterous touch. You drop your voice low, inching toward her as well.“You do remember what happened last time we shared a bottle of whisky.”

Her lips curl into a wry smile. “Of course.” Was she asking you on purpose? _Proposing something …?_ You open your mouth to keep arguing, but you could never refuse her, even if you wanted to. Unconsciously you want to bite her hand off excitedly accepting, and you’re lost in her smile and the twinkle thats lighting her eyes. _You know that look_. You’ve felt it on your back as she run her fingers down your spine, as she's sat beside you pinking your skin moving her fingers inside you simply for the aesthetic, not letting you derive the peaking pleasure you want.

An impossible to suppress, blushing smile has you shifting your gaze past her, trying to distance yourself from your own body and how obvious your weakness for her was. “The three of us ended up in -“

“I know.” She interrupts with a tap of her cane, a light touch to the side of her smooth her bright hair, a more confident red than it had been in Outpost 3. She flicks the length of her ponytail across her shoulder and adjusts her glasses.

“I think you’ve got your hands full already. She’ll be full term in a matter of 6-8 weeks …,” You state firmly. Its not about you. And theres big events happening soon that both of them have to prepare for, even though the baby wont be theirs to care for, the psychological build up to - and then suffering through, giving birth, is something not to be trifled with by an interfering third wheel.

But Miss Venable isn’t willing to let her control of you slip, or your need to be near her wane. _Was it selfish?_ Wilhemina had already pondered on more than one occasion. _To not let you go?_ “I miss you,” She admitted with distant eyes that stared into your own, one hand reaching a quiver from atop her cane. The tips of her fingers stroke faintly along the lines of your finger bones on the top of your hand.

Before she can think better of the action and pull away, you turn your hand over and grab hers, always cool and a little stiff. Giving it a squeeze, you try and diffuse through your skin everything _more_ you want to say to her, everything that you’re holding back for the _right reasons._ As much as it knots your stomach you know you’re not the one, so why is she saying this now? Jenna was alive, she was back, why drag this out? You take a breath and sigh it out again, shaking your head at yourself. You’re punishing yourself, even now giving her what she wants, and you cant help it. You love her. “I miss you too,” You murmur softly.

Her fingers curl around your own taking control of the hand hold, you can feel the grip of the soft leather glove on your skin and you gnaw your lip trying to ignore how she closes the gap between your bodies, stepping ever carefully closer. Miss Venable was never one to be passive. “Come for a drink,” She says, determined. “She likes you.” The nub of her cane taps lightly on the floor, tilting her head just had around as if to check on her girlfriend, represent her too“She trusts you-”

Squeaking white sneakers approach as of one of the nurses calls for you. “Dr Carter we have a new patient - “ The nurse stalls seeing you both standing so close. You snap your hand away dropping Miss Venables one hastily, shoving it to safety in your lab coat pocket.

“Coming,” You smiles hurriedly to the girl, glancing apologetically back to Miss Venable for your behaviour. “I have to work,” You gesture lamely, feeling as though you’re letting her down somehow for not being available, for not being completely devoid of work or purpose or places to be beside being there for _her._ Like it used to be.

She remains still, an island of solid impenetrable rock in the storm of your emotions. “Consider it,” Miss Venable finishes, turning swiftly on her heel to walk away. You open your mouth to say something, anything, to make her stay a little longer. But up ahead you catch sight of the woman waiting for her, standing in the open doorway, the mouth of the medical bay, and the way Miss Venable holds her free hand out for Jenna to take. You smile quietly to yourself, watching them walking out the medical bay hand in hand, both needing the slow careful pace.

Reunited, together.

The nurse waves through your unfocused vision, calling your attention, and you get back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now this is concluded, I'll be taking requests, should anyone have any burning Miss Venable related fic desires. 
> 
> Again, thank you all dear readers, for reviews comments and kudos, it has been one heck of a ride!


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